The Project Gutenberg EBook of House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton

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Title: House of Mirth

Author: Edith Wharton

Release Date: April 3, 2008 [EBook #284]
[Last updated: January 12, 2014]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOUSE OF MIRTH ***













The House of Mirth

BY

EDITH WHARTON




                          BOOK ONE


Chapter 1

Selden paused in surprise. In the afternoon rush of the Grand Central
Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of Miss Lily Bart.

It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning to his work from
a hurried dip into the country; but what was Miss Bart doing in town at
that season? If she had appeared to be catching a train, he might have
inferred that he had come on her in the act of transition between one and
another of the country-houses which disputed her presence after the close
of the Newport season; but her desultory air perplexed him. She stood
apart from the crowd, letting it drift by her to the platform or the
street, and wearing an air of irresolution which might, as he surmised,
be the mask of a very definite purpose. It struck him at once that she
was waiting for some one, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him.
There was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her without
a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of her that she
always roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result of
far-reaching intentions.

An impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line to the door,
and stroll past her. He knew that if she did not wish to be seen she
would contrive to elude him; and it amused him to think of putting her
skill to the test.

"Mr. Selden--what good luck!"

She came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to intercept him.
One or two persons, in brushing past them, lingered to look; for Miss
Bart was a figure to arrest even the suburban traveller rushing to his
last train.

Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head, relieved against
the dull tints of the crowd, made her more conspicuous than in a
ball-room, and under her dark hat and veil she regained the girlish
smoothness, the purity of tint, that she was beginning to lose after
eleven years of late hours and indefatigable dancing. Was it really
eleven years, Selden found himself wondering, and had she indeed reached
the nine-and-twentieth birthday with which her rivals credited her?

"What luck!" she repeated. "How nice of you to come to my rescue!"

He responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life, and asked
what form the rescue was to take.

"Oh, almost any--even to sitting on a bench and talking to me.  One sits
out a cotillion--why not sit out a train? It isn't a bit hotter here than
in Mrs. Van Osburgh's conservatory--and some of the women are not a bit
uglier."  She broke off, laughing, to explain that she had come up to
town from Tuxedo, on her way to the Gus Trenors' at Bellomont, and had
missed the three-fifteen train to Rhinebeck.  "And there isn't another
till half-past five." She consulted the little jewelled watch among her
laces.  "Just two hours to wait. And I don't know what to do with myself.
My maid came up this morning to do some shopping for me, and was to go on
to Bellomont at one o'clock, and my aunt's house is closed, and I don't
know a soul in town." She glanced plaintively about the station. "It IS
hotter than Mrs. Van Osburgh's, after all. If you can spare the time, do
take me somewhere for a breath of air."

He declared himself entirely at her disposal: the adventure struck him as
diverting. As a spectator, he had always enjoyed Lily Bart; and his
course lay so far out of her orbit that it amused him to be drawn for a
moment into the sudden intimacy which her proposal implied.

"Shall we go over to Sherry's for a cup of tea?"

She smiled assentingly, and then made a slight grimace.

"So many people come up to town on a Monday--one is sure to meet a lot of
bores. I'm as old as the hills, of course, and it ought not to make any
difference; but if I'M old enough, you're not," she objected gaily.  "I'm
dying for tea--but isn't there a quieter place?"

He answered her smile, which rested on him vividly. Her discretions
interested him almost as much as her imprudences: he was so sure that
both were part of the same carefully-elaborated plan. In judging Miss
Bart, he had always made use of the "argument from design."

"The resources of New York are rather meagre," he said; "but I'll find a
hansom first, and then we'll invent something." He led her through the
throng of returning holiday-makers, past sallow-faced girls in
preposterous hats, and flat-chested women struggling with paper bundles
and palm-leaf fans. Was it possible that she belonged to the same race?
The dinginess, the crudity of this average section of womanhood made him
feel how highly specialized she was.

A rapid shower had cooled the air, and clouds still hung refreshingly
over the moist street.

"How delicious! Let us walk a little," she said as they emerged from the
station.

They turned into Madison Avenue and began to stroll northward. As she
moved beside him, with her long light step, Selden was conscious of
taking a luxurious pleasure in her nearness: in the modelling of her
little ear, the crisp upward wave of her hair--was it ever so slightly
brightened by art?--and the thick planting of her straight black lashes.
Everything about her was at once vigorous and exquisite, at once strong
and fine. He had a confused sense that she must have cost a great deal to
make, that a great many dull and ugly people must, in some mysterious
way, have been sacrificed to produce her. He was aware that the qualities
distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external: as
though a fine glaze of beauty and fastidiousness had been applied to
vulgar clay. Yet the analogy left him unsatisfied, for a coarse texture
will not take a high finish; and was it not possible that the material
was fine, but that circumstance had fashioned it into a futile shape?

As he reached this point in his speculations the sun came out, and her
lifted parasol cut off his enjoyment. A moment or two later she paused
with a sigh.

"Oh, dear, I'm so hot and thirsty--and what a hideous place New York is!"
She looked despairingly up and down the dreary thoroughfare.  "Other
cities put on their best clothes in summer, but New York seems to sit in
its shirtsleeves." Her eyes wandered down one of the side-streets.
"Someone has had the humanity to plant a few trees over there. Let us go
into the shade."

"I am glad my street meets with your approval," said Selden as they
turned the corner.

"Your street? Do you live here?"

She glanced with interest along the new brick and limestone house-fronts,
fantastically varied in obedience to the American craving for novelty,
but fresh and inviting with their awnings and flower-boxes.

"Ah, yes--to be sure: THE BENEDICK. What a nice-looking building!  I
don't think I've ever seen it before." She looked across at the
flat-house with its marble porch and pseudo-Georgian facade.  "Which are
your windows? Those with the awnings down?"

"On the top floor--yes."

"And that nice little balcony is yours? How cool it looks up there!"

He paused a moment. "Come up and see," he suggested. "I can give you a
cup of tea in no time--and you won't meet any bores."

Her colour deepened--she still had the art of blushing at the right
time--but she took the suggestion as lightly as it was made.

"Why not? It's too tempting--I'll take the risk," she declared.

"Oh, I'm not dangerous," he said in the same key. In truth, he had never
liked her as well as at that moment. He knew she had accepted without
afterthought: he could never be a factor in her calculations, and there
was a surprise, a refreshment almost, in the spontaneity of her consent.

On the threshold he paused a moment, feeling for his latchkey.

"There's no one here; but I have a servant who is supposed to come in the
mornings, and it's just possible he may have put out the tea-things and
provided some cake."

He ushered her into a slip of a hall hung with old prints. She noticed
the letters and notes heaped on the table among his gloves and sticks;
then she found herself in a small library, dark but cheerful, with its
walls of books, a pleasantly faded Turkey rug, a littered desk and, as he
had foretold, a tea-tray on a low table near the window. A breeze had
sprung up, swaying inward the muslin curtains, and bringing a fresh scent
of mignonette and petunias from the flower-box on the balcony.

Lily sank with a sigh into one of the shabby leather chairs.

"How delicious to have a place like this all to one's self! What a
miserable thing it is to be a woman." She leaned back in a luxury of
discontent.

Selden was rummaging in a cupboard for the cake.

"Even women," he said, "have been known to enjoy the privileges of a
flat."

"Oh, governesses--or widows. But not girls--not poor, miserable,
marriageable girls!"

"I even know a girl who lives in a flat."

She sat up in surprise. "You do?"

"I do," he assured her, emerging from the cupboard with the sought-for
cake.

"Oh, I know--you mean Gerty Farish." She smiled a little unkindly. "But I
said MARRIAGEABLE--and besides, she has a horrid little place, and no
maid, and such queer things to eat. Her cook does the washing and the
food tastes of soap. I should hate that, you know."

"You shouldn't dine with her on wash-days," said Selden, cutting the cake.

They both laughed, and he knelt by the table to light the lamp under the
kettle, while she measured out the tea into a little tea-pot of green
glaze. As he watched her hand, polished as a bit of old ivory, with its
slender pink nails, and the sapphire bracelet slipping over her wrist, he
was struck with the irony of suggesting to her such a life as his cousin
Gertrude Farish had chosen. She was so evidently the victim of the
civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet
seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate.

She seemed to read his thought. "It was horrid of me to say that of
Gerty," she said with charming compunction. "I forgot she was your
cousin. But we're so different, you know: she likes being good, and I
like being happy. And besides, she is free and I am not. If I were, I
daresay I could manage to be happy even in her flat. It must be pure
bliss to arrange the furniture just as one likes, and give all the
horrors to the ash-man. If I could only do over my aunt's drawing-room I
know I should be a better woman."

"Is it so very bad?" he asked sympathetically.

She smiled at him across the tea-pot which she was holding up to be
filled.

"That shows how seldom you come there. Why don't you come oftener?"

"When I do come, it's not to look at Mrs. Peniston's furniture."

"Nonsense," she said. "You don't come at all--and yet we get on so well
when we meet."

"Perhaps that's the reason," he answered promptly. "I'm afraid I haven't
any cream, you know--shall you mind a slice of lemon instead?"

"I shall like it better." She waited while he cut the lemon and dropped a
thin disk into her cup. "But that is not the reason," she insisted.

"The reason for what?"

"For your never coming." She leaned forward with a shade of perplexity in
her charming eyes. "I wish I knew--I wish I could make you out. Of course
I know there are men who don't like me--one can tell that at a glance.
And there are others who are afraid of me: they think I want to marry
them." She smiled up at him frankly. "But I don't think you dislike
me--and you can't possibly think I want to marry you."

"No--I absolve you of that," he agreed.

"Well, then----?"

He had carried his cup to the fireplace, and stood leaning against the
chimney-piece and looking down on her with an air of indolent amusement.
The provocation in her eyes increased his amusement--he had not supposed
she would waste her powder on such small game; but perhaps she was only
keeping her hand in; or perhaps a girl of her type had no conversation
but of the personal kind. At any rate, she was amazingly pretty, and he
had asked her to tea and must live up to his obligations.

"Well, then," he said with a plunge, "perhaps THAT'S the reason."

"What?"

"The fact that you don't want to marry me. Perhaps I don't regard it as
such a strong inducement to go and see you." He felt a slight shiver down
his spine as he ventured this, but her laugh reassured him.

"Dear Mr. Selden, that wasn't worthy of you. It's stupid of you to make
love to me, and it isn't like you to be stupid." She leaned back, sipping
her tea with an air so enchantingly judicial that, if they had been in
her aunt's drawing-room, he might almost have tried to disprove her
deduction.

"Don't you see," she continued, "that there are men enough to say
pleasant things to me, and that what I want is a friend who won't be
afraid to say disagreeable ones when I need them? Sometimes I have
fancied you might be that friend--I don't know why, except that you are
neither a prig nor a bounder, and that I shouldn't have to pretend with
you or be on my guard against you." Her voice had dropped to a note of
seriousness, and she sat gazing up at him with the troubled gravity of a
child.

"You don't know how much I need such a friend," she said. "My aunt is
full of copy-book axioms, but they were all meant to apply to conduct in
the early fifties. I always feel that to live up to them would include
wearing book-muslin with gigot sleeves.  And the other women--my best
friends--well, they use me or abuse me; but they don't care a straw what
happens to me. I've been about too long--people are getting tired of me;
they are beginning to say I ought to marry."

There was a moment's pause, during which Selden meditated one or two
replies calculated to add a momentary zest to the situation; but he
rejected them in favour of the simple question: "Well, why don't you?"

She coloured and laughed. "Ah, I see you ARE a friend after all, and that
is one of the disagreeable things I was asking for."

"It wasn't meant to be disagreeable," he returned amicably.  "Isn't
marriage your vocation? Isn't it what you're all brought up for?"

She sighed. "I suppose so. What else is there?"

"Exactly. And so why not take the plunge and have it over?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "You speak as if I ought to marry the first
man who came along."

"I didn't mean to imply that you are as hard put to it as that. But there
must be some one with the requisite qualifications."

She shook her head wearily. "I threw away one or two good chances when I
first came out--I suppose every girl does; and you know I am horribly
poor--and very expensive. I must have a great deal of money."

Selden had turned to reach for a cigarette-box on the mantelpiece.

"What's become of Dillworth?" he asked.

"Oh, his mother was frightened--she was afraid I should have all the
family jewels reset. And she wanted me to promise that I wouldn't do over
the drawing-room."

"The very thing you are marrying for!"

"Exactly. So she packed him off to India."

"Hard luck--but you can do better than Dillworth."

He offered the box, and she took out three or four cigarettes, putting
one between her lips and slipping the others into a little gold case
attached to her long pearl chain.

"Have I time? Just a whiff, then." She leaned forward, holding the tip of
her cigarette to his. As she did so, he noted, with a purely impersonal
enjoyment, how evenly the black lashes were set in her smooth white lids,
and how the purplish shade beneath them melted into the pure pallour of
the cheek.

She began to saunter about the room, examining the bookshelves between
the puffs of her cigarette-smoke. Some of the volumes had the ripe tints
of good tooling and old morocco, and her eyes lingered on them
caressingly, not with the appreciation of the expert, but with the
pleasure in agreeable tones and textures that was one of her inmost
susceptibilities. Suddenly her expression changed from desultory
enjoyment to active conjecture, and she turned to Selden with a question.

"You collect, don't you--you know about first editions and things?"

"As much as a man may who has no money to spend. Now and then I pick up
something in the rubbish heap; and I go and look on at the big sales."

She had again addressed herself to the shelves, but her eyes now swept
them inattentively, and he saw that she was preoccupied with a new idea.

"And Americana--do you collect Americana?"

Selden stared and laughed.

"No, that's rather out of my line. I'm not really a collector, you see; I
simply like to have good editions of the books I am fond of."

She made a slight grimace. "And Americana are horribly dull, I suppose?"

"I should fancy so--except to the historian. But your real collector
values a thing for its rarity. I don't suppose the buyers of Americana
sit up reading them all night--old Jefferson Gryce certainly didn't."

She was listening with keen attention. "And yet they fetch fabulous
prices, don't they? It seems so odd to want to pay a lot for an ugly
badly-printed book that one is never going to read!  And I suppose most
of the owners of Americana are not historians either?"

"No; very few of the historians can afford to buy them. They have to use
those in the public libraries or in private collections.  It seems to be
the mere rarity that attracts the average collector."

He had seated himself on an arm of the chair near which she was standing,
and she continued to question him, asking which were the rarest volumes,
whether the Jefferson Gryce collection was really considered the finest
in the world, and what was the largest price ever fetched by a single
volume.

It was so pleasant to sit there looking up at her, as she lifted now one
book and then another from the shelves, fluttering the pages between her
fingers, while her drooping profile was outlined against the warm
background of old bindings, that he talked on without pausing to wonder
at her sudden interest in so unsuggestive a subject. But he could never
be long with her without trying to find a reason for what she was doing,
and as she replaced his first edition of La Bruyere and turned away from
the bookcases, he began to ask himself what she had been driving at. Her
next question was not of a nature to enlighten him. She paused before him
with a smile which seemed at once designed to admit him to her
familiarity, and to remind him of the restrictions it imposed.

"Don't you ever mind," she asked suddenly, "not being rich enough to buy
all the books you want?"

He followed her glance about the room, with its worn furniture and shabby
walls.

"Don't I just? Do you take me for a saint on a pillar?"

"And having to work--do you mind that?"

"Oh, the work itself is not so bad--I'm rather fond of the law."

"No; but the being tied down: the routine--don't you ever want to get
away, to see new places and people?"

"Horribly--especially when I see all my friends rushing to the steamer."

She drew a sympathetic breath. "But do you mind enough--to marry to get
out of it?"

Selden broke into a laugh. "God forbid!" he declared.

She rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate.

"Ah, there's the difference--a girl must, a man may if he chooses." She
surveyed him critically. "Your coat's a little shabby--but who cares?  It
doesn't keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby no one
would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for
herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they
don't make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dingy woman?
We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop--and if we
can't keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership."

Selden glanced at her with amusement: it was impossible, even with her
lovely eyes imploring him, to take a sentimental view of her case.

"Ah, well, there must be plenty of capital on the look-out for such an
investment. Perhaps you'll meet your fate tonight at the Trenors'."

She returned his look interrogatively.

"I thought you might be going there--oh, not in that capacity!  But there
are to be a lot of your set--Gwen Van Osburgh, the Wetheralls, Lady
Cressida Raith--and the George Dorsets."

She paused a moment before the last name, and shot a query through her
lashes; but he remained imperturbable.

"Mrs. Trenor asked me; but I can't get away till the end of the week; and
those big parties bore me."

"Ah, so they do me," she exclaimed.

"Then why go?"

"It's part of the business--you forget! And besides, if I didn't, I
should be playing bezique with my aunt at Richfield Springs."

"That's almost as bad as marrying Dillworth," he agreed, and they both
laughed for pure pleasure in their sudden intimacy.

She glanced at the clock.

"Dear me! I must be off. It's after five."

She paused before the mantelpiece, studying herself in the mirror while
she adjusted her veil. The attitude revealed the long slope of her
slender sides, which gave a kind of wild-wood grace to her outline--as
though she were a captured dryad subdued to the conventions of the
drawing-room; and Selden reflected that it was the same streak of sylvan
freedom in her nature that lent such savour to her artificiality.

He followed her across the room to the entrance-hall; but on the
threshold she held out her hand with a gesture of leave-taking.

"It's been delightful; and now you will have to return my visit."

"But don't you want me to see you to the station?"

"No; good bye here, please."

She let her hand lie in his a moment, smiling up at him adorably.

"Good bye, then--and good luck at Bellomont!" he said, opening the door
for her.

On the landing she paused to look about her. There were a thousand
chances to one against her meeting anybody, but one could never tell, and
she always paid for her rare indiscretions by a violent reaction of
prudence. There was no one in sight, however, but a char-woman who was
scrubbing the stairs. Her own stout person and its surrounding implements
took up so much room that Lily, to pass her, had to gather up her skirts
and brush against the wall. As she did so, the woman paused in her work
and looked up curiously, resting her clenched red fists on the wet cloth
she had just drawn from her pail. She had a broad sallow face, slightly
pitted with small-pox, and thin straw-coloured hair through which her
scalp shone unpleasantly.

"I beg your pardon," said Lily, intending by her politeness to convey a
criticism of the other's manner.

The woman, without answering, pushed her pail aside, and continued to
stare as Miss Bart swept by with a murmur of silken linings. Lily felt
herself flushing under the look. What did the creature suppose? Could one
never do the simplest, the most harmless thing, without subjecting one's
self to some odious conjecture? Half way down the next flight, she smiled
to think that a char-woman's stare should so perturb her.  The poor thing
was probably dazzled by such an unwonted apparition. But WERE such
apparitions unwonted on Selden's stairs? Miss Bart was not familiar with
the moral code of bachelors' flat-houses, and her colour rose again as it
occurred to her that the woman's persistent gaze implied a groping among
past associations. But she put aside the thought with a smile at her own
fears, and hastened downward, wondering if she should find a cab short of
Fifth Avenue.

Under the Georgian porch she paused again, scanning the street for a
hansom. None was in sight, but as she reached the sidewalk she ran
against a small glossy-looking man with a gardenia in his coat, who
raised his hat with a surprised exclamation.

"Miss Bart? Well--of all people! This IS luck," he declared; and she
caught a twinkle of amused curiosity between his screwed-up lids.

"Oh, Mr. Rosedale--how are you?" she said, perceiving that the
irrepressible annoyance on her face was reflected in the sudden intimacy
of his smile.

Mr. Rosedale stood scanning her with interest and approval. He was a
plump rosy man of the blond Jewish type, with smart London clothes
fitting him like upholstery, and small sidelong eyes which gave him the
air of appraising people as if they were bric-a-brac. He glanced up
interrogatively at the porch of the Benedick.

"Been up to town for a little shopping, I suppose?" he said, in a tone
which had the familiarity of a touch.

Miss Bart shrank from it slightly, and then flung herself into
precipitate explanations.

"Yes--I came up to see my dress-maker. I am just on my way to catch the
train to the Trenors'."

"Ah--your dress-maker; just so," he said blandly. "I didn't know there
were any dress-makers in the Benedick."

"The Benedick?" She looked gently puzzled. "Is that the name of this
building?"

"Yes, that's the name: I believe it's an old word for bachelor, isn't it?
I happen to own the building--that's the way I know." His smile deepened
as he added with increasing assurance: "But you must let me take you to
the station. The Trenors are at Bellomont, of course?  You've barely time
to catch the five-forty.  The dress-maker kept you waiting, I suppose."

Lily stiffened under the pleasantry.

"Oh, thanks," she stammered; and at that moment her eye caught a hansom
drifting down Madison Avenue, and she hailed it with a desperate gesture.

"You're very kind; but I couldn't think of troubling you," she said,
extending her hand to Mr. Rosedale; and heedless of his protestations,
she sprang into the rescuing vehicle, and called out a breathless order
to the driver.



Chapter 2

In the hansom she leaned back with a sigh. Why must a girl pay so dearly
for her least escape from routine? Why could one never do a natural thing
without having to screen it behind a structure of artifice? She had
yielded to a passing impulse in going to Lawrence Selden's rooms, and it
was so seldom that she could allow herself the luxury of an impulse! This
one, at any rate, was going to cost her rather more than she could
afford. She was vexed to see that, in spite of so many years of
vigilance, she had blundered twice within five minutes. That stupid story
about her dress-maker was bad enough--it would have been so simple to
tell Rosedale that she had been taking tea with Selden! The mere
statement of the fact would have rendered it innocuous. But, after having
let herself be surprised in a falsehood, it was doubly stupid to snub the
witness of her discomfiture. If she had had the presence of mind to let
Rosedale drive her to the station, the concession might have purchased
his silence. He had his race's accuracy in the appraisal of values, and
to be seen walking down the platform at the crowded afternoon hour in the
company of Miss Lily Bart would have been money in his pocket, as he
might himself have phrased it. He knew, of course, that there would be a
large house-party at Bellomont, and the possibility of being taken for
one of Mrs. Trenor's guests was doubtless included in his calculations.
Mr. Rosedale was still at a stage in his social ascent when it was of
importance to produce such impressions.

The provoking part was that Lily knew all this--knew how easy it would
have been to silence him on the spot, and how difficult it might be to do
so afterward. Mr. Simon Rosedale was a man who made it his business to
know everything about every one, whose idea of showing himself to be at
home in society was to display an inconvenient familiarity with the
habits of those with whom he wished to be thought intimate. Lily was sure
that within twenty-four hours the story of her visiting her dress-maker
at the Benedick would be in active circulation among Mr. Rosedale's
acquaintances. The worst of it was that she had always snubbed and
ignored him. On his first appearance--when her improvident cousin, Jack
Stepney, had obtained for him (in return for favours too easily guessed)
a card to one of the vast impersonal Van Osburgh "crushes"--Rosedale,
with that mixture of artistic sensibility and business astuteness which
characterizes his race, had instantly gravitated toward Miss Bart. She
understood his motives, for her own course was guided by as nice
calculations. Training and experience had taught her to be hospitable to
newcomers, since the most unpromising might be useful later on, and there
were plenty of available OUBLIETTES to swallow them if they were not. But
some intuitive repugnance, getting the better of years of social
discipline, had made her push Mr. Rosedale into his OUBLIETTE without a
trial. He had left behind only the ripple of amusement which his speedy
despatch had caused among her friends; and though later (to shift the
metaphor) he reappeared lower down the stream, it was only in fleeting
glimpses, with long submergences between.

Hitherto Lily had been undisturbed by scruples. In her little set Mr.
Rosedale had been pronounced "impossible," and Jack Stepney roundly
snubbed for his attempt to pay his debts in dinner invitations. Even Mrs.
Trenor, whose taste for variety had led her into some hazardous
experiments, resisted Jack's attempts to disguise Mr. Rosedale as a
novelty, and declared that he was the same little Jew who had been served
up and rejected at the social board a dozen times within her memory; and
while Judy Trenor was obdurate there was small chance of Mr. Rosedale's
penetrating beyond the outer limbo of the Van Osburgh crushes. Jack gave
up the contest with a laughing "You'll see," and, sticking manfully to
his guns, showed himself with Rosedale at the fashionable restaurants, in
company with the personally vivid if socially obscure ladies who are
available for such purposes. But the attempt had hitherto been vain, and
as Rosedale undoubtedly paid for the dinners, the laugh remained with his
debtor.

Mr. Rosedale, it will be seen, was thus far not a factor to be
feared--unless one put one's self in his power. And this was precisely
what Miss Bart had done. Her clumsy fib had let him see that she had
something to conceal; and she was sure he had a score to settle with her.
Something in his smile told her he had not forgotten. She turned from the
thought with a little shiver, but it hung on her all the way to the
station, and dogged her down the platform with the persistency of Mr.
Rosedale himself.

She had just time to take her seat before the train started; but having
arranged herself in her corner with the instinctive feeling for effect
which never forsook her, she glanced about in the hope of seeing some
other member of the Trenors' party. She wanted to get away from herself,
and conversation was the only means of escape that she knew.

Her search was rewarded by the discovery of a very blond young man with a
soft reddish beard, who, at the other end of the carriage, appeared to be
dissembling himself behind an unfolded newspaper. Lily's eye brightened,
and a faint smile relaxed the drawn lines of her mouth. She had known
that Mr. Percy Gryce was to be at Bellomont, but she had not counted on
the luck of having him to herself in the train; and the fact banished all
perturbing thoughts of Mr. Rosedale. Perhaps, after all, the day was to
end more favourably than it had begun.

She began to cut the pages of a novel, tranquilly studying her prey
through downcast lashes while she organized a method of attack.
Something in his attitude of conscious absorption told her that he was
aware of her presence: no one had ever been quite so engrossed in an
evening paper! She guessed that he was too shy to come up to her, and
that she would have to devise some means of approach which should not
appear to be an advance on her part.  It amused her to think that any one
as rich as Mr. Percy Gryce should be shy; but she was gifted with
treasures of indulgence for such idiosyncrasies, and besides, his
timidity might serve her purpose better than too much assurance. She had
the art of giving self-confidence to the embarrassed, but she was not
equally sure of being able to embarrass the self-confident.

She waited till the train had emerged from the tunnel and was racing
between the ragged edges of the northern suburbs. Then, as it lowered its
speed near Yonkers, she rose from her seat and drifted slowly down the
carriage. As she passed Mr. Gryce, the train gave a lurch, and he was
aware of a slender hand gripping the back of his chair. He rose with a
start, his ingenuous face looking as though it had been dipped in
crimson: even the reddish tint in his beard seemed to deepen. The train
swayed again, almost flinging Miss Bart into his arms.

She steadied herself with a laugh and drew back; but he was enveloped in
the scent of her dress, and his shoulder had felt her fugitive touch.

"Oh, Mr. Gryce, is it you? I'm so sorry--I was trying to find the porter
and get some tea."

She held out her hand as the train resumed its level rush, and they stood
exchanging a few words in the aisle. Yes--he was going to Bellomont. He
had heard she was to be of the party--he blushed again as he admitted it.
And was he to be there for a whole week?  How delightful!

But at this point one or two belated passengers from the last station
forced their way into the carriage, and Lily had to retreat to her seat.

"The chair next to mine is empty--do take it," she said over her
shoulder; and Mr. Gryce, with considerable embarrassment, succeeded in
effecting an exchange which enabled him to transport himself and his bags
to her side.

"Ah--and here is the porter, and perhaps we can have some tea."

She signalled to that official, and in a moment, with the ease that
seemed to attend the fulfilment of all her wishes, a little table had
been set up between the seats, and she had helped Mr. Gryce to bestow his
encumbering properties beneath it.

When the tea came he watched her in silent fascination while her hands
flitted above the tray, looking miraculously fine and slender in contrast
to the coarse china and lumpy bread. It seemed wonderful to him that any
one should perform with such careless ease the difficult task of making
tea in public in a lurching train. He would never have dared to order it
for himself, lest he should attract the notice of his fellow-passengers;
but, secure in the shelter of her conspicuousness, he sipped the inky
draught with a delicious sense of exhilaration.

Lily, with the flavour of Selden's caravan tea on her lips, had no great
fancy to drown it in the railway brew which seemed such nectar to her
companion; but, rightly judging that one of the charms of tea is the fact
of drinking it together, she proceeded to give the last touch to Mr.
Gryce's enjoyment by smiling at him across her lifted cup.

"Is it quite right--I haven't made it too strong?" she asked
solicitously; and he replied with conviction that he had never tasted
better tea.

"I daresay it is true," she reflected; and her imagination was fired by
the thought that Mr. Gryce, who might have sounded the depths of the most
complex self-indulgence, was perhaps actually taking his first journey
alone with a pretty woman.

It struck her as providential that she should be the instrument of his
initiation. Some girls would not have known how to manage him. They would
have over-emphasized the novelty of the adventure, trying to make him
feel in it the zest of an escapade.  But Lily's methods were more
delicate. She remembered that her cousin Jack Stepney had once defined
Mr. Gryce as the young man who had promised his mother never to go out in
the rain without his overshoes; and acting on this hint, she resolved to
impart a gently domestic air to the scene, in the hope that her
companion, instead of feeling that he was doing something reckless or
unusual, would merely be led to dwell on the advantage of always having a
companion to make one's tea in the train.

But in spite of her efforts, conversation flagged after the tray had been
removed, and she was driven to take a fresh measurement of Mr. Gryce's
limitations. It was not, after all, opportunity but imagination that he
lacked: he had a mental palate which would never learn to distinguish
between railway tea and nectar.  There was, however, one topic she could
rely on: one spring that she had only to touch to set his simple
machinery in motion. She had refrained from touching it because it was a
last resource, and she had relied on other arts to stimulate other
sensations; but as a settled look of dulness began to creep over his
candid features, she saw that extreme measures were necessary.

"And how," she said, leaning forward, "are you getting on with your
Americana?"

His eye became a degree less opaque: it was as though an incipient film
had been removed from it, and she felt the pride of a skilful operator.

"I've got a few new things," he said, suffused with pleasure, but
lowering his voice as though he feared his fellow-passengers might be in
league to despoil him.

She returned a sympathetic enquiry, and gradually he was drawn on to talk
of his latest purchases. It was the one subject which enabled him to
forget himself, or allowed him, rather, to remember himself without
constraint, because he was at home in it, and could assert a superiority
that there were few to dispute. Hardly any of his acquaintances cared for
Americana, or knew anything about them; and the consciousness of this
ignorance threw Mr. Gryce's knowledge into agreeable relief. The only
difficulty was to introduce the topic and to keep it to the front; most
people showed no desire to have their ignorance dispelled, and Mr. Gryce
was like a merchant whose warehouses are crammed with an unmarketable
commodity.

But Miss Bart, it appeared, really did want to know about Americana; and
moreover, she was already sufficiently informed to make the task of
farther instruction as easy as it was agreeable.  She questioned him
intelligently, she heard him submissively; and, prepared for the look of
lassitude which usually crept over his listeners' faces, he grew eloquent
under her receptive gaze.  The "points" she had had the presence of mind
to glean from Selden, in anticipation of this very contingency, were
serving her to such good purpose that she began to think her visit to him
had been the luckiest incident of the day. She had once more shown her
talent for profiting by the unexpected, and dangerous theories as to the
advisability of yielding to impulse were germinating under the surface of
smiling attention which she continued to present to her companion.

Mr. Gryce's sensations, if less definite, were equally agreeable.  He
felt the confused titillation with which the lower organisms welcome the
gratification of their needs, and all his senses floundered in a vague
well-being, through which Miss Bart's personality was dimly but
pleasantly perceptible.

Mr. Gryce's interest in Americana had not originated with himself: it was
impossible to think of him as evolving any taste of his own. An uncle had
left him a collection already noted among bibliophiles; the existence of
the collection was the only fact that had ever shed glory on the name of
Gryce, and the nephew took as much pride in his inheritance as though it
had been his own work. Indeed, he gradually came to regard it as such,
and to feel a sense of personal complacency when he chanced on any
reference to the Gryce Americana. Anxious as he was to avoid personal
notice, he took, in the printed mention of his name, a pleasure so
exquisite and excessive that it seemed a compensation for his shrinking
from publicity.

To enjoy the sensation as often as possible, he subscribed to all the
reviews dealing with book-collecting in general, and American history in
particular, and as allusions to his library abounded in the pages of
these journals, which formed his only reading, he came to regard himself
as figuring prominently in the public eye, and to enjoy the thought of
the interest which would be excited if the persons he met in the street,
or sat among in travelling, were suddenly to be told that he was the
possessor of the Gryce Americana.

Most timidities have such secret compensations, and Miss Bart was
discerning enough to know that the inner vanity is generally in
proportion to the outer self-depreciation. With a more confident person
she would not have dared to dwell so long on one topic, or to show such
exaggerated interest in it; but she had rightly guessed that Mr. Gryce's
egoism was a thirsty soil, requiring constant nurture from without. Miss
Bart had the gift of following an undercurrent of thought while she
appeared to be sailing on the surface of conversation; and in this case
her mental excursion took the form of a rapid survey of Mr. Percy Gryce's
future as combined with her own. The Gryces were from Albany, and but
lately introduced to the metropolis, where the mother and son had come,
after old Jefferson Gryce's death, to take possession of his house in
Madison Avenue--an appalling house, all brown stone without and black
walnut within, with the Gryce library in a fire-proof annex that looked
like a mausoleum.  Lily, however, knew all about them: young Mr. Gryce's
arrival had fluttered the maternal breasts of New York, and when a girl
has no mother to palpitate for her she must needs be on the alert for
herself. Lily, therefore, had not only contrived to put herself in the
young man's way, but had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Gryce, a
monumental woman with the voice of a pulpit orator and a mind preoccupied
with the iniquities of her servants, who came sometimes to sit with Mrs.
Peniston and learn from that lady how she managed to prevent the
kitchen-maid's smuggling groceries out of the house. Mrs. Gryce had a
kind of impersonal benevolence: cases of individual need she regarded
with suspicion, but she subscribed to Institutions when their annual
reports showed an impressive surplus. Her domestic duties were manifold,
for they extended from furtive inspections of the servants' bedrooms to
unannounced descents to the cellar; but she had never allowed herself
many pleasures. Once, however, she had had a special edition of the Sarum
Rule printed in rubric and presented to every clergyman in the diocese;
and the gilt album in which their letters of thanks were pasted formed
the chief ornament of her drawing-room table.

Percy had been brought up in the principles which so excellent a woman
was sure to inculcate. Every form of prudence and suspicion had been
grafted on a nature originally reluctant and cautious, with the result
that it would have seemed hardly needful for Mrs. Gryce to extract his
promise about the overshoes, so little likely was he to hazard himself
abroad in the rain. After attaining his majority, and coming into the
fortune which the late Mr. Gryce had made out of a patent device for
excluding fresh air from hotels, the young man continued to live with his
mother in Albany; but on Jefferson Gryce's death, when another large
property passed into her son's hands, Mrs. Gryce thought that what she
called his "interests" demanded his presence in New York. She accordingly
installed herself in the Madison Avenue house, and Percy, whose sense of
duty was not inferior to his mother's, spent all his week days in the
handsome Broad Street office where a batch of pale men on small salaries
had grown grey in the management of the Gryce estate, and where he was
initiated with becoming reverence into every detail of the art of
accumulation.

As far as Lily could learn, this had hitherto been Mr. Gryce's only
occupation, and she might have been pardoned for thinking it not too hard
a task to interest a young man who had been kept on such low diet.  At
any rate, she felt herself so completely in command of the situation that
she yielded to a sense of security in which all fear of Mr. Rosedale, and
of the difficulties on which that fear was contingent, vanished beyond
the edge of thought.

The stopping of the train at Garrisons would not have distracted her from
these thoughts, had she not caught a sudden look of distress in her
companion's eye. His seat faced toward the door, and she guessed that he
had been perturbed by the approach of an acquaintance; a fact confirmed
by the turning of heads and general sense of commotion which her own
entrance into a railway-carriage was apt to produce.

She knew the symptoms at once, and was not surprised to be hailed by the
high notes of a pretty woman, who entered the train accompanied by a
maid, a bull-terrier, and a footman staggering under a load of bags and
dressing-cases.

"Oh, Lily--are you going to Bellomont? Then you can't let me have your
seat, I suppose? But I MUST have a seat in this carriage--porter, you
must find me a place at once. Can't some one be put somewhere else? I
want to be with my friends. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Gryce? Do please make
him understand that I must have a seat next to you and Lily."

Mrs. George Dorset, regardless of the mild efforts of a traveller with a
carpet-bag, who was doing his best to make room for her by getting out of
the train, stood in the middle of the aisle, diffusing about her that
general sense of exasperation which a pretty woman on her travels not
infrequently creates.

She was smaller and thinner than Lily Bart, with a restless pliability of
pose, as if she could have been crumpled up and run through a ring, like
the sinuous draperies she affected. Her small pale face seemed the mere
setting of a pair of dark exaggerated eyes, of which the visionary gaze
contrasted curiously with her self-assertive tone and gestures; so that,
as one of her friends observed, she was like a disembodied spirit who
took up a great deal of room.

Having finally discovered that the seat adjoining Miss Bart's was at her
disposal, she possessed herself of it with a farther displacement of her
surroundings, explaining meanwhile that she had come across from Mount
Kisco in her motor-car that morning, and had been kicking her heels for
an hour at Garrisons, without even the alleviation of a cigarette, her
brute of a husband having neglected to replenish her case before they
parted that morning.

"And at this hour of the day I don't suppose you've a single one left,
have you, Lily?" she plaintively concluded.

Miss Bart caught the startled glance of Mr. Percy Gryce, whose own lips
were never defiled by tobacco.

"What an absurd question, Bertha!" she exclaimed, blushing at the thought
of the store she had laid in at Lawrence Selden's.

"Why, don't you smoke? Since when have you given it up? What--you
never---- And you don't either, Mr. Gryce? Ah, of course--how stupid of
me--I understand."

And Mrs. Dorset leaned back against her travelling cushions with a smile
which made Lily wish there had been no vacant seat beside her own.



Chapter 3

Bridge at Bellomont usually lasted till the small hours; and when Lily
went to bed that night she had played too long for her own good.

Feeling no desire for the self-communion which awaited her in her room,
she lingered on the broad stairway, looking down into the hall below,
where the last card-players were grouped about the tray of tall glasses
and silver-collared decanters which the butler had just placed on a low
table near the fire.

The hall was arcaded, with a gallery supported on columns of pale yellow
marble. Tall clumps of flowering plants were grouped against a background
of dark foliage in the angles of the walls.  On the crimson carpet a
deer-hound and two or three spaniels dozed luxuriously before the fire,
and the light from the great central lantern overhead shed a brightness
on the women's hair and struck sparks from their jewels as they moved.

There were moments when such scenes delighted Lily, when they gratified
her sense of beauty and her craving for the external finish of life;
there were others when they gave a sharper edge to the meagreness of her
own opportunities. This was one of the moments when the sense of contrast
was uppermost, and she turned away impatiently as Mrs. George Dorset,
glittering in serpentine spangles, drew Percy Gryce in her wake to a
confidential nook beneath the gallery.

It was not that Miss Bart was afraid of losing her newly-acquired hold
over Mr. Gryce. Mrs. Dorset might startle or dazzle him, but she had
neither the skill nor the patience to effect his capture.  She was too
self-engrossed to penetrate the recesses of his shyness, and besides, why
should she care to give herself the trouble? At most it might amuse her
to make sport of his simplicity for an evening--after that he would be
merely a burden to her, and knowing this, she was far too experienced to
encourage him. But the mere thought of that other woman, who could take a
man up and toss him aside as she willed, without having to regard him as
a possible factor in her plans, filled Lily Bart with envy. She had been
bored all the afternoon by Percy Gryce--the mere thought seemed to waken
an echo of his droning voice--but she could not ignore him on the morrow,
she must follow up her success, must submit to more boredom, must be
ready with fresh compliances and adaptabilities, and all on the bare
chance that he might ultimately decide to do her the honour of boring her
for life.

It was a hateful fate--but how escape from it? What choice had she? To be
herself, or a Gerty Farish. As she entered her bedroom, with its
softly-shaded lights, her lace dressing-gown lying across the silken
bedspread, her little embroidered slippers before the fire, a vase of
carnations filling the air with perfume, and the last novels and
magazines lying uncut on a table beside the reading-lamp, she had a
vision of Miss Farish's cramped flat, with its cheap conveniences and
hideous wall-papers. No; she was not made for mean and shabby
surroundings, for the squalid compromises of poverty. Her whole being
dilated in an atmosphere of luxury; it was the background she required,
the only climate she could breathe in. But the luxury of others was not
what she wanted. A few years ago it had sufficed her: she had taken her
daily meed of pleasure without caring who provided it. Now she was
beginning to chafe at the obligations it imposed, to feel herself a mere
pensioner on the splendour which had once seemed to belong to her.  There
were even moments when she was conscious of having to pay her way.

For a long time she had refused to play bridge. She knew she could not
afford it, and she was afraid of acquiring so expensive a taste. She had
seen the danger exemplified in more than one of her associates--in young
Ned Silverton, for instance, the charming fair boy now seated in abject
rapture at the elbow of Mrs. Fisher, a striking divorcee with eyes and
gowns as emphatic as the head-lines of her "case." Lily could remember
when young Silverton had stumbled into their circle, with the air of a
strayed Arcadian who has published charming sonnets in his college journal.
Since then he had developed a taste for Mrs. Fisher and bridge, and the
latter at least had involved him in expenses from which he had been more
than once rescued by harassed maiden sisters, who treasured the sonnets,
and went without sugar in their tea to keep their darling afloat. Ned's
case was familiar to Lily: she had seen his charming eyes--which had a
good deal more poetry in them than the sonnets--change from surprise to
amusement, and from amusement to anxiety, as he passed under the spell
of the terrible god of chance; and she was afraid of discovering the
same symptoms in her own case.

For in the last year she had found that her hostesses expected her to
take a place at the card-table. It was one of the taxes she had to pay
for their prolonged hospitality, and for the dresses and trinkets which
occasionally replenished her insufficient wardrobe. And since she had
played regularly the passion had grown on her. Once or twice of late she
had won a large sum, and instead of keeping it against future losses, had
spent it in dress or jewelry; and the desire to atone for this
imprudence, combined with the increasing exhilaration of the game, drove
her to risk higher stakes at each fresh venture. She tried to excuse
herself on the plea that, in the Trenor set, if one played at all one
must either play high or be set down as priggish or stingy; but she knew
that the gambling passion was upon her, and that in her present
surroundings there was small hope of resisting it.

Tonight the luck had been persistently bad, and the little gold purse
which hung among her trinkets was almost empty when she returned to her
room. She unlocked the wardrobe, and taking out her jewel-case, looked
under the tray for the roll of bills from which she had replenished the
purse before going down to dinner.  Only twenty dollars were left: the
discovery was so startling that for a moment she fancied she must have
been robbed. Then she took paper and pencil, and seating herself at the
writing-table, tried to reckon up what she had spent during the day.  Her
head was throbbing with fatigue, and she had to go over the figures again
and again; but at last it became clear to her that she had lost three
hundred dollars at cards. She took out her cheque-book to see if her
balance was larger than she remembered, but found she had erred in the
other direction. Then she returned to her calculations; but figure as she
would, she could not conjure back the vanished three hundred dollars. It
was the sum she had set aside to pacify her dress-maker--unless she
should decide to use it as a sop to the jeweller. At any rate, she had so
many uses for it that its very insufficiency had caused her to play high
in the hope of doubling it.  But of course she had lost--she who needed
every penny, while Bertha Dorset, whose husband showered money on her,
must have pocketed at least five hundred, and Judy Trenor, who could have
afforded to lose a thousand a night, had left the table clutching such a
heap of bills that she had been unable to shake hands with her guests
when they bade her good night.

A world in which such things could be seemed a miserable place to Lily
Bart; but then she had never been able to understand the laws of a
universe which was so ready to leave her out of its calculations.

She began to undress without ringing for her maid, whom she had sent to
bed. She had been long enough in bondage to other people's pleasure to be
considerate of those who depended on hers, and in her bitter moods it
sometimes struck her that she and her maid were in the same position,
except that the latter received her wages more regularly.

As she sat before the mirror brushing her hair, her face looked hollow
and pale, and she was frightened by two little lines near her mouth,
faint flaws in the smooth curve of the cheek.

"Oh, I must stop worrying!" she exclaimed. "Unless it's the electric
light----" she reflected, springing up from her seat and lighting the
candles on the dressing-table.

She turned out the wall-lights, and peered at herself between the
candle-flames. The white oval of her face swam out waveringly from a
background of shadows, the uncertain light blurring it like a haze; but
the two lines about the mouth remained.

Lily rose and undressed in haste.

"It is only because I am tired and have such odious things to think
about," she kept repeating; and it seemed an added injustice that petty
cares should leave a trace on the beauty which was her only defence
against them.

But the odious things were there, and remained with her. She returned
wearily to the thought of Percy Gryce, as a wayfarer picks up a heavy
load and toils on after a brief rest. She was almost sure she had
"landed" him: a few days' work and she would win her reward. But the
reward itself seemed unpalatable just then: she could get no zest from
the thought of victory. It would be a rest from worry, no more--and how
little that would have seemed to her a few years earlier! Her ambitions
had shrunk gradually in the desiccating air of failure. But why had she
failed? Was it her own fault or that of destiny?

She remembered how her mother, after they had lost their money, used to
say to her with a kind of fierce vindictiveness: "But you'll get it all
back--you'll get it all back, with your face." . . . The remembrance
roused a whole train of association, and she lay in the darkness
reconstructing the past out of which her present had grown.

A house in which no one ever dined at home unless there was "company"; a
door-bell perpetually ringing; a hall-table showered with square
envelopes which were opened in haste, and oblong envelopes which were
allowed to gather dust in the depths of a bronze jar; a series of French
and English maids giving warning amid a chaos of hurriedly-ransacked
wardrobes and dress-closets; an equally changing dynasty of nurses and
footmen; quarrels in the pantry, the kitchen and the drawing-room;
precipitate trips to Europe, and returns with gorged trunks and days of
interminable unpacking; semi-annual discussions as to where the summer
should be spent, grey interludes of economy and brilliant reactions of
expense--such was the setting of Lily Bart's first memories.

Ruling the turbulent element called home was the vigorous and determined
figure of a mother still young enough to dance her ball-dresses to rags,
while the hazy outline of a neutral-tinted father filled an intermediate
space between the butler and the man who came to wind the clocks. Even to
the eyes of infancy, Mrs. Hudson Bart had appeared young; but Lily could
not recall the time when her father had not been bald and slightly
stooping, with streaks of grey in his hair, and a tired walk. It was a
shock to her to learn afterward that he was but two years older than her
mother.

Lily seldom saw her father by daylight. All day he was "down town"; and
in winter it was long after nightfall when she heard his fagged step on
the stairs and his hand on the school-room door. He would kiss her in
silence, and ask one or two questions of the nurse or the governess; then
Mrs. Bart's maid would come to remind him that he was dining out, and he
would hurry away with a nod to Lily. In summer, when he joined them for a
Sunday at Newport or Southampton, he was even more effaced and silent
than in winter. It seemed to tire him to rest, and he would sit for hours
staring at the sea-line from a quiet corner of the verandah, while the
clatter of his wife's existence went on unheeded a few feet off.
Generally, however, Mrs. Bart and Lily went to Europe for the summer, and
before the steamer was half way over Mr. Bart had dipped below the
horizon. Sometimes his daughter heard him denounced for having neglected
to forward Mrs. Bart's remittances; but for the most part he was never
mentioned or thought of till his patient stooping figure presented itself
on the New York dock as a buffer between the magnitude of his wife's
luggage and the restrictions of the American custom-house.

In this desultory yet agitated fashion life went on through Lily's teens:
a zig-zag broken course down which the family craft glided on a rapid
current of amusement, tugged at by the underflow of a perpetual need--the
need of more money. Lily could not recall the time when there had been
money enough, and in some vague way her father seemed always to blame for
the deficiency.  It could certainly not be the fault of Mrs. Bart, who
was spoken of by her friends as a "wonderful manager." Mrs. Bart was
famous for the unlimited effect she produced on limited means; and to the
lady and her acquaintances there was something heroic in living as though
one were much richer than one's bank-book denoted.

Lily was naturally proud of her mother's aptitude in this line: she had
been brought up in the faith that, whatever it cost, one must have a good
cook, and be what Mrs. Bart called "decently dressed." Mrs. Bart's worst
reproach to her husband was to ask him if he expected her to "live like a
pig"; and his replying in the negative was always regarded as a
justification for cabling to Paris for an extra dress or two, and
telephoning to the jeweller that he might, after all, send home the
turquoise bracelet which Mrs. Bart had looked at that morning.

Lily knew people who "lived like pigs," and their appearance and
surroundings justified her mother's repugnance to that form of existence.
They were mostly cousins, who inhabited dingy houses with engravings from
Cole's Voyage of Life on the drawing-room walls, and slatternly
parlour-maids who said "I'll go and see" to visitors calling at an hour
when all right-minded persons are conventionally if not actually out. The
disgusting part of it was that many of these cousins were rich, so that
Lily imbibed the idea that if people lived like pigs it was from choice,
and through the lack of any proper standard of conduct.  This gave her a
sense of reflected superiority, and she did not need Mrs. Bart's comments
on the family frumps and misers to foster her naturally lively taste for
splendour.

Lily was nineteen when circumstances caused her to revise her view of the
universe.

The previous year she had made a dazzling debut fringed by a heavy
thunder-cloud of bills. The light of the debut still lingered on the
horizon, but the cloud had thickened; and suddenly it broke. The
suddenness added to the horror; and there were still times when Lily
relived with painful vividness every detail of the day on which the blow
fell. She and her mother had been seated at the luncheon-table, over the
CHAUFROIX and cold salmon of the previous night's dinner: it was one of
Mrs. Bart's few economies to consume in private the expensive remnants of
her hospitality. Lily was feeling the pleasant languor which is youth's
penalty for dancing till dawn; but her mother, in spite of a few lines
about the mouth, and under the yellow waves on her temples, was as alert,
determined and high in colour as if she had risen from an untroubled
sleep.

In the centre of the table, between the melting MARRONS GLACES and
candied cherries, a pyramid of American Beauties lifted their vigorous
stems; they held their heads as high as Mrs. Bart, but their rose-colour
had turned to a dissipated purple, and Lily's sense of fitness was
disturbed by their reappearance on the luncheon-table.

"I really think, mother," she said reproachfully, "we might afford a few
fresh flowers for luncheon. Just some jonquils or lilies-of-the-valley--"

Mrs. Bart stared. Her own fastidiousness had its eye fixed on the world,
and she did not care how the luncheon-table looked when there was no one
present at it but the family. But she smiled at her daughter's innocence.

"Lilies-of-the-valley," she said calmly, "cost two dollars a dozen at
this season."

Lily was not impressed. She knew very little of the value of money.

"It would not take more than six dozen to fill that bowl," she argued.

"Six dozen what?" asked her father's voice in the doorway.

The two women looked up in surprise; though it was a Saturday, the sight
of Mr. Bart at luncheon was an unwonted one. But neither his wife nor his
daughter was sufficiently interested to ask an explanation.

Mr. Bart dropped into a chair, and sat gazing absently at the fragment of
jellied salmon which the butler had placed before him.

"I was only saying," Lily began, "that I hate to see faded flowers at
luncheon; and mother says a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley would not cost
more than twelve dollars. Mayn't I tell the florist to send a few every
day?"

She leaned confidently toward her father: he seldom refused her anything,
and Mrs. Bart had taught her to plead with him when her own entreaties
failed.

Mr. Bart sat motionless, his gaze still fixed on the salmon, and his
lower jaw dropped; he looked even paler than usual, and his thin hair lay
in untidy streaks on his forehead. Suddenly he looked at his daughter and
laughed. The laugh was so strange that Lily coloured under it: she
disliked being ridiculed, and her father seemed to see something
ridiculous in the request. Perhaps he thought it foolish that she should
trouble him about such a trifle.

"Twelve dollars--twelve dollars a day for flowers? Oh, certainly, my
dear--give him an order for twelve hundred." He continued to laugh.

Mrs. Bart gave him a quick glance.

"You needn't wait, Poleworth--I will ring for you," she said to the
butler.

The butler withdrew with an air of silent disapproval, leaving the
remains of the CHAUFROIX on the sideboard.

"What is the matter, Hudson? Are you ill?" said Mrs. Bart severely.

She had no tolerance for scenes which were not of her own making, and it
was odious to her that her husband should make a show of himself before
the servants.

"Are you ill?" she repeated.

"Ill?---- No, I'm ruined," he said.

Lily made a frightened sound, and Mrs. Bart rose to her feet.

"Ruined----?" she cried; but controlling herself instantly, she turned a
calm face to Lily.

"Shut the pantry door," she said.

Lily obeyed, and when she turned back into the room her father was
sitting with both elbows on the table, the plate of salmon between them,
and his head bowed on his hands.

Mrs. Bart stood over him with a white face which made her hair
unnaturally yellow. She looked at Lily as the latter approached: her look
was terrible, but her voice was modulated to a ghastly cheerfulness.

"Your father is not well--he doesn't know what he is saying. It is
nothing--but you had better go upstairs; and don't talk to the servants,"
she added.

Lily obeyed; she always obeyed when her mother spoke in that voice. She
had not been deceived by Mrs. Bart's words: she knew at once that they
were ruined. In the dark hours which followed, that awful fact
overshadowed even her father's slow and difficult dying. To his wife he
no longer counted: he had become extinct when he ceased to fulfil his
purpose, and she sat at his side with the provisional air of a traveller
who waits for a belated train to start. Lily's feelings were softer: she
pitied him in a frightened ineffectual way. But the fact that he was for
the most part unconscious, and that his attention, when she stole into
the room, drifted away from her after a moment, made him even more of a
stranger than in the nursery days when he had never come home till after
dark. She seemed always to have seen him through a blur--first of
sleepiness, then of distance and indifference--and now the fog had
thickened till he was almost indistinguishable. If she could have
performed any little services for him, or have exchanged with him a few
of those affecting words which an extensive perusal of fiction had led
her to connect with such occasions, the filial instinct might have
stirred in her; but her pity, finding no active expression, remained in a
state of spectatorship, overshadowed by her mother's grim unflagging
resentment. Every look and act of Mrs. Bart's seemed to say: "You are
sorry for him now--but you will feel differently when you see what he has
done to us."

It was a relief to Lily when her father died.

Then a long winter set in. There was a little money left, but to Mrs.
Bart it seemed worse than nothing--the mere mockery of what she was
entitled to. What was the use of living if one had to live like a pig?
She sank into a kind of furious apathy, a state of inert anger against
fate. Her faculty for "managing" deserted her, or she no longer took
sufficient pride in it to exert it. It was well enough to "manage" when
by so doing one could keep one's own carriage; but when one's best
contrivance did not conceal the fact that one had to go on foot, the
effort was no longer worth making.

Lily and her mother wandered from place to place, now paying long visits
to relations whose house-keeping Mrs. Bart criticized, and who deplored
the fact that she let Lily breakfast in bed when the girl had no
prospects before her, and now vegetating in cheap continental refuges,
where Mrs. Bart held herself fiercely aloof from the frugal tea-tables of
her companions in misfortune. She was especially careful to avoid her old
friends and the scenes of her former successes. To be poor seemed to her
such a confession of failure that it amounted to disgrace; and she
detected a note of condescension in the friendliest advances.

Only one thought consoled her, and that was the contemplation of Lily's
beauty. She studied it with a kind of passion, as though it were some
weapon she had slowly fashioned for her vengeance.  It was the last asset
in their fortunes, the nucleus around which their life was to be rebuilt.
She watched it jealously, as though it were her own property and Lily its
mere custodian; and she tried to instil into the latter a sense of the
responsibility that such a charge involved. She followed in imagination
the career of other beauties, pointing out to her daughter what might be
achieved through such a gift, and dwelling on the awful warning of those
who, in spite of it, had failed to get what they wanted: to Mrs. Bart,
only stupidity could explain the lamentable denouement of some of her
examples. She was not above the inconsistency of charging fate, rather
than herself, with her own misfortunes; but she inveighed so
acrimoniously against love-matches that Lily would have fancied her own
marriage had been of that nature, had not Mrs. Bart frequently assured
her that she had been "talked into it"--by whom, she never made clear.

Lily was duly impressed by the magnitude of her opportunities.  The
dinginess of her present life threw into enchanting relief the existence
to which she felt herself entitled. To a less illuminated intelligence
Mrs. Bart's counsels might have been dangerous; but Lily understood that
beauty is only the raw material of conquest, and that to convert it into
success other arts are required. She knew that to betray any sense of
superiority was a subtler form of the stupidity her mother denounced, and
it did not take her long to learn that a beauty needs more tact than the
possessor of an average set of features.

Her ambitions were not as crude as Mrs. Bart's. It had been among that
lady's grievances that her husband--in the early days, before he was too
tired--had wasted his evenings in what she vaguely described as "reading
poetry"; and among the effects packed off to auction after his death were
a score or two of dingy volumes which had struggled for existence among
the boots and medicine bottles of his dressing-room shelves. There was in
Lily a vein of sentiment, perhaps transmitted from this source, which
gave an idealizing touch to her most prosaic purposes. She liked to think
of her beauty as a power for good, as giving her the opportunity to
attain a position where she should make her influence felt in the vague
diffusion of refinement and good taste.  She was fond of pictures and
flowers, and of sentimental fiction, and she could not help thinking that
the possession of such tastes ennobled her desire for worldly advantages.
She would not indeed have cared to marry a man who was merely rich: she
was secretly ashamed of her mother's crude passion for money.  Lily's
preference would have been for an English nobleman with political
ambitions and vast estates; or, for second choice, an Italian prince with
a castle in the Apennines and an hereditary office in the Vatican. Lost
causes had a romantic charm for her, and she liked to picture herself as
standing aloof from the vulgar press of the Quirinal, and sacrificing her
pleasure to the claims of an immemorial tradition. . . .

How long ago and how far off it all seemed! Those ambitions were hardly
more futile and childish than the earlier ones which had centred about
the possession of a French jointed doll with real hair. Was it only ten
years since she had wavered in imagination between the English earl and
the Italian prince? Relentlessly her mind travelled on over the dreary
interval. . . .

After two years of hungry roaming Mrs. Bart had died----died of a deep
disgust. She had hated dinginess, and it was her fate to be dingy. Her
visions of a brilliant marriage for Lily had faded after the first year.

"People can't marry you if they don't see you--and how can they see you
in these holes where we're stuck?" That was the burden of her lament; and
her last adjuration to her daughter was to escape from dinginess if she
could.

"Don't let it creep up on you and drag you down. Fight your way out of it
somehow--you're young and can do it," she insisted.

She had died during one of their brief visits to New York, and there Lily
at once became the centre of a family council composed of the wealthy
relatives whom she had been taught to despise for living like pigs. It
may be that they had an inkling of the sentiments in which she had been
brought up, for none of them manifested a very lively desire for her
company; indeed, the question threatened to remain unsolved till Mrs.
Peniston with a sigh announced: "I'll try her for a year."

Every one was surprised, but one and all concealed their surprise, lest
Mrs. Peniston should be alarmed by it into reconsidering her decision.

Mrs. Peniston was Mr. Bart's widowed sister, and if she was by no means
the richest of the family group, its other members nevertheless abounded
in reasons why she was clearly destined by Providence to assume the
charge of Lily. In the first place she was alone, and it would be
charming for her to have a young companion. Then she sometimes travelled,
and Lily's familiarity with foreign customs--deplored as a misfortune by
her more conservative relatives--would at least enable her to act as a
kind of courier. But as a matter of fact Mrs. Peniston had not been
affected by these considerations. She had taken the girl simply because
no one else would have her, and because she had the kind of moral
MAUVAISE HONTE which makes the public display of selfishness difficult,
though it does not interfere with its private indulgence. It would have
been impossible for Mrs. Peniston to be heroic on a desert island, but
with the eyes of her little world upon her she took a certain pleasure in
her act.

She reaped the reward to which disinterestedness is entitled, and found
an agreeable companion in her niece. She had expected to find Lily
headstrong, critical and "foreign"--for even Mrs. Peniston, though she
occasionally went abroad, had the family dread of foreignness--but the
girl showed a pliancy, which, to a more penetrating mind than her aunt's,
might have been less reassuring than the open selfishness of youth.
Misfortune had made Lily supple instead of hardening her, and a pliable
substance is less easy to break than a stiff one.

Mrs. Peniston, however, did not suffer from her niece's adaptability.
Lily had no intention of taking advantage of her aunt's good nature.  She
was in truth grateful for the refuge offered her: Mrs. Peniston's opulent
interior was at least not externally dingy. But dinginess is a quality
which assumes all manner of disguises; and Lily soon found that it was as
latent in the expensive routine of her aunt's life as in the makeshift
existence of a continental pension.

Mrs. Peniston was one of the episodical persons who form the padding of
life. It was impossible to believe that she had herself ever been a focus
of activities. The most vivid thing about her was the fact that her
grandmother had been a Van Alstyne. This connection with the well-fed and
industrious stock of early New York revealed itself in the glacial
neatness of Mrs. Peniston's drawing-room and in the excellence of her
cuisine. She belonged to the class of old New Yorkers who have always
lived well, dressed expensively, and done little else; and to these
inherited obligations Mrs. Peniston faithfully conformed.  She had always
been a looker-on at life, and her mind resembled one of those little
mirrors which her Dutch ancestors were accustomed to affix to their upper
windows, so that from the depths of an impenetrable domesticity they
might see what was happening in the street.

Mrs. Peniston was the owner of a country-place in New Jersey, but she had
never lived there since her husband's death--a remote event, which
appeared to dwell in her memory chiefly as a dividing point in the
personal reminiscences that formed the staple of her conversation. She
was a woman who remembered dates with intensity, and could tell at a
moment's notice whether the drawing-room curtains had been renewed before
or after Mr. Peniston's last illness.

Mrs. Peniston thought the country lonely and trees damp, and cherished a
vague fear of meeting a bull. To guard against such contingencies she
frequented the more populous watering-places, where she installed herself
impersonally in a hired house and looked on at life through the matting
screen of her verandah. In the care of such a guardian, it soon became
clear to Lily that she was to enjoy only the material advantages of good
food and expensive clothing; and, though far from underrating these, she
would gladly have exchanged them for what Mrs. Bart had taught her to
regard as opportunities. She sighed to think what her mother's fierce
energies would have accomplished, had they been coupled with Mrs.
Peniston's resources. Lily had abundant energy of her own, but it was
restricted by the necessity of adapting herself to her aunt's habits. She
saw that at all costs she must keep Mrs. Peniston's favour till, as Mrs.
Bart would have phrased it, she could stand on her own legs. Lily had no
mind for the vagabond life of the poor relation, and to adapt herself to
Mrs. Peniston she had, to some degree, to assume that lady's passive
attitude. She had fancied at first that it would be easy to draw her aunt
into the whirl of her own activities, but there was a static force in
Mrs. Peniston against which her niece's efforts spent themselves in vain.
To attempt to bring her into active relation with life was like tugging
at a piece of furniture which has been screwed to the floor. She did not,
indeed, expect Lily to remain equally immovable: she had all the American
guardian's indulgence for the volatility of youth.

She had indulgence also for certain other habits of her niece's.  It
seemed to her natural that Lily should spend all her money on dress, and
she supplemented the girl's scanty income by occasional "handsome
presents" meant to be applied to the same purpose. Lily, who was
intensely practical, would have preferred a fixed allowance; but Mrs.
Peniston liked the periodical recurrence of gratitude evoked by
unexpected cheques, and was perhaps shrewd enough to perceive that such a
method of giving kept alive in her niece a salutary sense of dependence.

Beyond this, Mrs. Peniston had not felt called upon to do anything for
her charge: she had simply stood aside and let her take the field. Lily
had taken it, at first with the confidence of assured possessorship, then
with gradually narrowing demands, till now she found herself actually
struggling for a foothold on the broad space which had once seemed her
own for the asking. How it happened she did not yet know.  Sometimes she
thought it was because Mrs. Peniston had been too passive, and again she
feared it was because she herself had not been passive enough. Had she
shown an undue eagerness for victory? Had she lacked patience, pliancy
and dissimulation? Whether she charged herself with these faults or
absolved herself from them, made no difference in the sum-total of her
failure. Younger and plainer girls had been married off by dozens, and
she was nine-and-twenty, and still Miss Bart.

She was beginning to have fits of angry rebellion against fate, when she
longed to drop out of the race and make an independent life for herself.
But what manner of life would it be? She had barely enough money to pay
her dress-makers' bills and her gambling debts; and none of the desultory
interests which she dignified with the name of tastes was pronounced
enough to enable her to live contentedly in obscurity.  Ah, no--she was
too intelligent not to be honest with herself. She knew that she hated
dinginess as much as her mother had hated it, and to her last breath she
meant to fight against it, dragging herself up again and again above its
flood till she gained the bright pinnacles of success which presented
such a slippery surface to her clutch.



Chapter 4

The next morning, on her breakfast tray, Miss Bart found a note from her
hostess.

"Dearest Lily," it ran, "if it is not too much of a bore to be down by
ten, will you come to my sitting-room to help me with some tiresome
things?"

Lily tossed aside the note and subsided on her pillows with a sigh. It
WAS a bore to be down by ten--an hour regarded at Bellomont as vaguely
synchronous with sunrise--and she knew too well the nature of the
tiresome things in question. Miss Pragg, the secretary, had been called
away, and there would be notes and dinner-cards to write, lost addresses
to hunt up, and other social drudgery to perform. It was understood that
Miss Bart should fill the gap in such emergencies, and she usually
recognized the obligation without a murmur.

Today, however, it renewed the sense of servitude which the previous
night's review of her cheque-book had produced.  Everything in her
surroundings ministered to feelings of ease and amenity. The windows
stood open to the sparkling freshness of the September morning, and
between the yellow boughs she caught a perspective of hedges and
parterres leading by degrees of lessening formality to the free
undulations of the park. Her maid had kindled a little fire on the
hearth, and it contended cheerfully with the sunlight which slanted
across the moss-green carpet and caressed the curved sides of an old
marquetry desk.  Near the bed stood a table holding her breakfast tray,
with its harmonious porcelain and silver, a handful of violets in a
slender glass, and the morning paper folded beneath her letters.  There
was nothing new to Lily in these tokens of a studied luxury; but, though
they formed a part of her atmosphere, she never lost her sensitiveness to
their charm. Mere display left her with a sense of superior distinction;
but she felt an affinity to all the subtler manifestations of wealth.

Mrs. Trenor's summons, however, suddenly recalled her state of
dependence, and she rose and dressed in a mood of irritability that she
was usually too prudent to indulge. She knew that such emotions leave
lines on the face as well as in the character, and she had meant to take
warning by the little creases which her midnight survey had revealed.

The matter-of-course tone of Mrs. Trenor's greeting deepened her
irritation. If one did drag one's self out of bed at such an hour, and
come down fresh and radiant to the monotony of note-writing, some special
recognition of the sacrifice seemed fitting. But Mrs. Trenor's tone
showed no consciousness of the fact.

"Oh, Lily, that's nice of you," she merely sighed across the chaos of
letters, bills and other domestic documents which gave an incongruously
commercial touch to the slender elegance of her writing-table.

"There are such lots of horrors this morning," she added, clearing a
space in the centre of the confusion and rising to yield her seat to Miss
Bart.

Mrs. Trenor was a tall fair woman, whose height just saved her from
redundancy. Her rosy blondness had survived some forty years of futile
activity without showing much trace of ill-usage except in a diminished
play of feature. It was difficult to define her beyond saying that she
seemed to exist only as a hostess, not so much from any exaggerated
instinct of hospitality as because she could not sustain life except in a
crowd. The collective nature of her interests exempted her from the
ordinary rivalries of her sex, and she knew no more personal emotion than
that of hatred for the woman who presumed to give bigger dinners or have
more amusing house-parties than herself. As her social talents, backed by
Mr. Trenor's bank-account, almost always assured her ultimate triumph in
such competitions, success had developed in her an unscrupulous good
nature toward the rest of her sex, and in Miss Bart's utilitarian
classification of her friends, Mrs. Trenor ranked as the woman who was
least likely to "go back" on her.

"It was simply inhuman of Pragg to go off now," Mrs. Trenor declared, as
her friend seated herself at the desk. "She says her sister is going to
have a baby--as if that were anything to having a house-party! I'm sure I
shall get most horribly mixed up and there will be some awful rows. When
I was down at Tuxedo I asked a lot of people for next week, and I've
mislaid the list and can't remember who is coming. And this week is going
to be a horrid failure too--and Gwen Van Osburgh will go back and tell
her mother how bored people were. I did mean to ask the Wetheralls--that
was a blunder of Gus's. They disapprove of Carry Fisher, you know. As if
one could help having Carry Fisher! It WAS foolish of her to get that
second divorce--Carry always overdoes things--but she said the only way
to get a penny out of Fisher was to divorce him and make him pay alimony.
And poor Carry has to consider every dollar. It's really absurd of Alice
Wetherall to make such a fuss about meeting her, when one thinks of what
society is coming to. Some one said the other day that there was a
divorce and a case of appendicitis in every family one knows. Besides,
Carry is the only person who can keep Gus in a good humour when we have
bores in the house. Have you noticed that ALL the husbands like her? All,
I mean, except her own. It's rather clever of her to have made a
specialty of devoting herself to dull people--the field is such a large
one, and she has it practically to herself. She finds compensations, no
doubt--I know she borrows money of Gus--but then I'd PAY her to keep him
in a good humour, so I can't complain, after all."

Mrs. Trenor paused to enjoy the spectacle of Miss Bart's efforts to
unravel her tangled correspondence.

"But it is only the Wetheralls and Carry," she resumed, with a fresh note
of lament. "The truth is, I'm awfully disappointed in Lady Cressida
Raith."

"Disappointed? Had you known her before?"

"Mercy, no--never saw her till yesterday. Lady Skiddaw sent her over with
letters to the Van Osburghs, and I heard that Maria Van Osburgh was
asking a big party to meet her this week, so I thought it would be fun to
get her away, and Jack Stepney, who knew her in India, managed it for me.
Maria was furious, and actually had the impudence to make Gwen invite
herself here, so that they shouldn't be QUITE out of it--if I'd known
what Lady Cressida was like, they could have had her and welcome! But I
thought any friend of the Skiddaws' was sure to be amusing. You remember
what fun Lady Skiddaw was? There were times when I simply had to send the
girls out of the room. Besides, Lady Cressida is the Duchess of
Beltshire's sister, and I naturally supposed she was the same sort; but
you never can tell in those English families. They are so big that
there's room for all kinds, and it turns out that Lady Cressida is the
moral one--married a clergy-man and does missionary work in the East End.
Think of my taking such a lot of trouble about a clergyman's wife, who
wears Indian jewelry and botanizes! She made Gus take her all through the
glass-houses yesterday, and bothered him to death by asking him the names
of the plants. Fancy treating Gus as if he were the gardener!"

Mrs. Trenor brought this out in a CRESCENDO of indignation.

"Oh, well, perhaps Lady Cressida will reconcile the Wetheralls to meeting
Carry Fisher," said Miss Bart pacifically.

"I'm sure I hope so! But she is boring all the men horribly, and if she
takes to distributing tracts, as I hear she does, it will be too
depressing. The worst of it is that she would have been so useful at the
right time. You know we have to have the Bishop once a year, and she
would have given just the right tone to things. I always have horrid luck
about the Bishop's visits," added Mrs. Trenor, whose present misery was
being fed by a rapidly rising tide of reminiscence; "last year, when he
came, Gus forgot all about his being here, and brought home the Ned
Wintons and the Farleys--five divorces and six sets of children between
them!"

"When is Lady Cressida going?" Lily enquired.

Mrs. Trenor cast up her eyes in despair. "My dear, if one only knew! I
was in such a hurry to get her away from Maria that I actually forgot to
name a date, and Gus says she told some one she meant to stop here all
winter."

"To stop here? In this house?"

"Don't be silly--in America. But if no one else asks her--you know they
NEVER go to hotels."

"Perhaps Gus only said it to frighten you."

"No--I heard her tell Bertha Dorset that she had six months to put in
while her husband was taking the cure in the Engadine. You should have
seen Bertha look vacant! But it's no joke, you know--if she stays here
all the autumn she'll spoil everything, and Maria Van Osburgh will simply
exult."

At this affecting vision Mrs. Trenor's voice trembled with self-pity.

"Oh, Judy--as if any one were ever bored at Bellomont!" Miss Bart
tactfully protested. "You know perfectly well that, if Mrs. Van Osburgh
were to get all the right people and leave you with all the wrong ones,
you'd manage to make things go off, and she wouldn't."

Such an assurance would usually have restored Mrs. Trenor's complacency;
but on this occasion it did not chase the cloud from her brow.

"It isn't only Lady Cressida," she lamented. "Everything has gone wrong
this week. I can see that Bertha Dorset is furious with me."

"Furious with you? Why?"

"Because I told her that Lawrence Selden was coming; but he wouldn't,
after all, and she's quite unreasonable enough to think it's my fault."

Miss Bart put down her pen and sat absently gazing at the note she had
begun.

"I thought that was all over," she said.

"So it is, on his side. And of course Bertha has been idle since.  But I
fancy she's out of a job just at present--and some one gave me a hint
that I had better ask Lawrence. Well, I DID ask him--but I couldn't make
him come; and now I suppose she'll take it out of me by being perfectly
nasty to every one else."

"Oh, she may take it out of HIM by being perfectly charming--to some one
else."

Mrs. Trenor shook her head dolefully. "She knows he wouldn't mind. And
who else is there? Alice Wetherall won't let Lucius out of her sight.
Ned Silverton can't take his eyes off Carry Fisher--poor boy! Gus is
bored by Bertha, Jack Stepney knows her too well--and--well, to be sure,
there's Percy Gryce!"

She sat up smiling at the thought.

Miss Bart's countenance did not reflect the smile.

"Oh, she and Mr. Gryce would not be likely to hit it off."

"You mean that she'd shock him and he'd bore her? Well, that's not such a
bad beginning, you know. But I hope she won't take it into her head to be
nice to him, for I asked him here on purpose for you."

Lily laughed. "MERCI DU COMPLIMENT! I should certainly have no show
against Bertha."

"Do you think I am uncomplimentary? I'm not really, you know.  Every one
knows you're a thousand times handsomer and cleverer than Bertha; but
then you're not nasty. And for always getting what she wants in the long
run, commend me to a nasty woman."

Miss Bart stared in affected reproval. "I thought you were so fond of
Bertha."

"Oh, I am--it's much safer to be fond of dangerous people. But she IS
dangerous--and if I ever saw her up to mischief it's now.  I can tell by
poor George's manner. That man is a perfect barometer--he always knows
when Bertha is going to----"

"To fall?" Miss Bart suggested.

"Don't be shocking! You know he believes in her still. And of course I
don't say there's any real harm in Bertha. Only she delights in making
people miserable, and especially poor George."

"Well, he seems cut out for the part--I don't wonder she likes more
cheerful companionship."

"Oh, George is not as dismal as you think. If Bertha did worry him he
would be quite different. Or if she'd leave him alone, and let him
arrange his life as he pleases. But she doesn't dare lose her hold of him
on account of the money, and so when HE isn't jealous she pretends to be."

Miss Bart went on writing in silence, and her hostess sat following her
train of thought with frowning intensity.

"Do you know," she exclaimed after a long pause, "I believe I'll call up
Lawrence on the telephone and tell him he simply MUST come?"

"Oh, don't," said Lily, with a quick suffusion of colour. The blush
surprised her almost as much as it did her hostess, who, though not
commonly observant of facial changes, sat staring at her with puzzled
eyes.

"Good gracious, Lily, how handsome you are! Why? Do you dislike him so
much?"

"Not at all; I like him. But if you are actuated by the benevolent
intention of protecting me from Bertha--I don't think I need your
protection."

Mrs. Trenor sat up with an exclamation. "Lily!----PERCY? Do you mean to
say you've actually done it?"

Miss Bart smiled. "I only mean to say that Mr. Gryce and I are getting to
be very good friends."

"H'm--I see." Mrs. Trenor fixed a rapt eye upon her. "You know they say
he has eight hundred thousand a year--and spends nothing, except on some
rubbishy old books. And his mother has heart-disease and will leave him a
lot more. OH, LILY, DO GO SLOWLY," her friend adjured her.

Miss Bart continued to smile without annoyance. "I shouldn't, for
instance," she remarked, "be in any haste to tell him that he had a lot
of rubbishy old books."

"No, of course not; I know you're wonderful about getting up people's
subjects. But he's horribly shy, and easily shocked, and--and----"

"Why don't you say it, Judy? I have the reputation of being on the hunt
for a rich husband?"

"Oh, I don't mean that; he wouldn't believe it of you--at first," said
Mrs. Trenor, with candid shrewdness. "But you know things are rather
lively here at times--I must give Jack and Gus a hint--and if he thought
you were what his mother would call fast--oh, well, you know what I mean.
Don't wear your scarlet CREPE-DE-CHINE for dinner, and don't smoke if you
can help it, Lily dear!"

Lily pushed aside her finished work with a dry smile. "You're very kind,
Judy: I'll lock up my cigarettes and wear that last year's dress you sent
me this morning. And if you are really interested in my career, perhaps
you'll be kind enough not to ask me to play bridge again this evening."

"Bridge? Does he mind bridge, too? Oh, Lily, what an awful life you'll
lead! But of course I won't--why didn't you give me a hint last night?
There's nothing I wouldn't do, you poor duck, to see you happy!"

And Mrs. Trenor, glowing with her sex's eagerness to smooth the course of
true love, enveloped Lily in a long embrace.

"You're quite sure," she added solicitously, as the latter extricated
herself, "that you wouldn't like me to telephone for Lawrence Selden?"

"Quite sure," said Lily.



The next three days demonstrated to her own complete satisfaction Miss
Bart's ability to manage her affairs without extraneous aid.

As she sat, on the Saturday afternoon, on the terrace at Bellomont, she
smiled at Mrs. Trenor's fear that she might go too fast. If such a
warning had ever been needful, the years had taught her a salutary
lesson, and she flattered herself that she now knew how to adapt her pace
to the object of pursuit. In the case of Mr. Gryce she had found it well
to flutter ahead, losing herself elusively and luring him on from depth
to depth of unconscious intimacy. The surrounding atmosphere was
propitious to this scheme of courtship. Mrs. Trenor, true to her word,
had shown no signs of expecting Lily at the bridge-table, and had even
hinted to the other card-players that they were to betray no surprise at
her unwonted defection. In consequence of this hint, Lily found herself
the centre of that feminine solicitude which envelops a young woman in
the mating season. A solitude was tacitly created for her in the crowded
existence of Bellomont, and her friends could not have shown a greater
readiness for self-effacement had her wooing been adorned with all the
attributes of romance. In Lily's set this conduct implied a sympathetic
comprehension of her motives, and Mr. Gryce rose in her esteem as she saw
the consideration he inspired.

The terrace at Bellomont on a September afternoon was a spot propitious
to sentimental musings, and as Miss Bart stood leaning against the
balustrade above the sunken garden, at a little distance from the
animated group about the tea-table, she might have been lost in the mazes
of an inarticulate happiness. In reality, her thoughts were finding
definite utterance in the tranquil recapitulation of the blessings in
store for her. From where she stood she could see them embodied in the
form of Mr. Gryce, who, in a light overcoat and muffler, sat somewhat
nervously on the edge of his chair, while Carry Fisher, with all the
energy of eye and gesture with which nature and art had combined to endow
her, pressed on him the duty of taking part in the task of municipal
reform.

Mrs. Fisher's latest hobby was municipal reform. It had been preceded by
an equal zeal for socialism, which had in turn replaced an energetic
advocacy of Christian Science. Mrs. Fisher was small, fiery and dramatic;
and her hands and eyes were admirable instruments in the service of
whatever causes she happened to espouse. She had, however, the fault
common to enthusiasts of ignoring any slackness of response on the part
of her hearers, and Lily was amused by her unconsciousness of the
resistance displayed in every angle of Mr. Gryce's attitude.  Lily
herself knew that his mind was divided between the dread of catching cold
if he remained out of doors too long at that hour, and the fear that, if
he retreated to the house, Mrs. Fisher might follow him up with a paper
to be signed. Mr. Gryce had a constitutional dislike to what he called
"committing himself," and tenderly as he cherished his health, he
evidently concluded that it was safer to stay out of reach of pen and ink
till chance released him from Mrs. Fisher's toils. Meanwhile he cast
agonized glances in the direction of Miss Bart, whose only response was
to sink into an attitude of more graceful abstraction. She had learned
the value of contrast in throwing her charms into relief, and was fully
aware of the extent to which Mrs. Fisher's volubility was enhancing her
own repose.

She was roused from her musings by the approach of her cousin Jack
Stepney who, at Gwen Van Osburgh's side, was returning across the garden
from the tennis court.

The couple in question were engaged in the same kind of romance in which
Lily figured, and the latter felt a certain annoyance in contemplating
what seemed to her a caricature of her own situation.  Miss Van Osburgh
was a large girl with flat surfaces and no high lights: Jack Stepney had
once said of her that she was as reliable as roast mutton. His own taste
was in the line of less solid and more highly-seasoned diet; but hunger
makes any fare palatable, and there had been times when Mr. Stepney had
been reduced to a crust.

Lily considered with interest the expression of their faces: the girl's
turned toward her companion's like an empty plate held up to be filled,
while the man lounging at her side already betrayed the encroaching
boredom which would presently crack the thin veneer of his smile.

"How impatient men are!" Lily reflected. "All Jack has to do to get
everything he wants is to keep quiet and let that girl marry him; whereas
I have to calculate and contrive, and retreat and advance, as if I were
going through an intricate dance, where one misstep would throw me
hopelessly out of time."

As they drew nearer she was whimsically struck by a kind of family
likeness between Miss Van Osburgh and Percy Gryce. There was no
resemblance of feature. Gryce was handsome in a didactic way--he looked
like a clever pupil's drawing from a plaster-cast--while Gwen's
countenance had no more modelling than a face painted on a toy balloon.
But the deeper affinity was unmistakable: the two had the same prejudices
and ideals, and the same quality of making other standards non-existent
by ignoring them. This attribute was common to most of Lily's set: they
had a force of negation which eliminated everything beyond their own
range of perception. Gryce and Miss Van Osburgh were, in short, made for
each other by every law of moral and physical correspondence----"Yet they
wouldn't look at each other," Lily mused, "they never do. Each of them
wants a creature of a different race, of Jack's race and mine, with all
sorts of intuitions, sensations and perceptions that they don't even
guess the existence of. And they always get what they want."

She stood talking with her cousin and Miss Van Osburgh, till a slight
cloud on the latter's brow advised her that even cousinly amenities were
subject to suspicion, and Miss Bart, mindful of the necessity of not
exciting enmities at this crucial point of her career, dropped aside
while the happy couple proceeded toward the tea-table.

Seating herself on the upper step of the terrace, Lily leaned her head
against the honeysuckles wreathing the balustrade. The fragrance of the
late blossoms seemed an emanation of the tranquil scene, a landscape
tutored to the last degree of rural elegance. In the foreground glowed
the warm tints of the gardens.  Beyond the lawn, with its pyramidal
pale-gold maples and velvety firs, sloped pastures dotted with cattle;
and through a long glade the river widened like a lake under the silver
light of September. Lily did not want to join the circle about the
tea-table. They represented the future she had chosen, and she was
content with it, but in no haste to anticipate its joys. The certainty
that she could marry Percy Gryce when she pleased had lifted a heavy load
from her mind, and her money troubles were too recent for their removal
not to leave a sense of relief which a less discerning intelligence might
have taken for happiness. Her vulgar cares were at an end. She would be
able to arrange her life as she pleased, to soar into that empyrean of
security where creditors cannot penetrate. She would have smarter gowns
than Judy Trenor, and far, far more jewels than Bertha Dorset. She would
be free forever from the shifts, the expedients, the humiliations of the
relatively poor. Instead of having to flatter, she would be flattered;
instead of being grateful, she would receive thanks. There were old
scores she could pay off as well as old benefits she could return. And
she had no doubts as to the extent of her power. She knew that Mr. Gryce
was of the small chary type most inaccessible to impulses and emotions.
He had the kind of character in which prudence is a vice, and good advice
the most dangerous nourishment. But Lily had known the species before:
she was aware that such a guarded nature must find one huge outlet of
egoism, and she determined to be to him what his Americana had hitherto
been: the one possession in which he took sufficient pride to spend money
on it. She knew that this generosity to self is one of the forms of
meanness, and she resolved so to identify herself with her husband's
vanity that to gratify her wishes would be to him the most exquisite form
of self-indulgence. The system might at first necessitate a resort to
some of the very shifts and expedients from which she intended it should
free her; but she felt sure that in a short time she would be able to
play the game in her own way. How should she have distrusted her powers?
Her beauty itself was not the mere ephemeral possession it might have
been in the hands of inexperience: her skill in enhancing it, the care
she took of it, the use she made of it, seemed to give it a kind of
permanence. She felt she could trust it to carry her through to the end.

And the end, on the whole, was worthwhile. Life was not the mockery she
had thought it three days ago. There was room for her, after all, in this
crowded selfish world of pleasure whence, so short a time since, her
poverty had seemed to exclude her.  These people whom she had ridiculed
and yet envied were glad to make a place for her in the charmed circle
about which all her desires revolved. They were not as brutal and
self-engrossed as she had fancied--or rather, since it would no longer be
necessary to flatter and humour them, that side of their nature became
less conspicuous. Society is a revolving body which is apt to be judged
according to its place in each man's heaven; and at present it was
turning its illuminated face to Lily.

In the rosy glow it diffused her companions seemed full of amiable
qualities. She liked their elegance, their lightness, their lack of
emphasis: even the self-assurance which at times was so like obtuseness
now seemed the natural sign of social ascendency. They were lords of the
only world she cared for, and they were ready to admit her to their ranks
and let her lord it with them. Already she felt within her a stealing
allegiance to their standards, an acceptance of their limitations, a
disbelief in the things they did not believe in, a contemptuous pity for
the people who were not able to live as they lived.

The early sunset was slanting across the park. Through the boughs of the
long avenue beyond the gardens she caught the flash of wheels, and
divined that more visitors were approaching. There was a movement behind
her, a scattering of steps and voices: it was evident that the party
about the tea-table was breaking up.  Presently she heard a tread behind
her on the terrace. She supposed that Mr. Gryce had at last found means
to escape from his predicament, and she smiled at the significance of his
coming to join her instead of beating an instant retreat to the fire-side.

She turned to give him the welcome which such gallantry deserved; but her
greeting wavered into a blush of wonder, for the man who had approached
her was Lawrence Selden.

"You see I came after all," he said; but before she had time to answer,
Mrs. Dorset, breaking away from a lifeless colloquy with her host, had
stepped between them with a little gesture of appropriation.



Chapter 5

The observance of Sunday at Bellomont was chiefly marked by the punctual
appearance of the smart omnibus destined to convey the household to the
little church at the gates. Whether any one got into the omnibus or not
was a matter of secondary importance, since by standing there it not only
bore witness to the orthodox intentions of the family, but made Mrs.
Trenor feel, when she finally heard it drive away, that she had somehow
vicariously made use of it.

It was Mrs. Trenor's theory that her daughters actually did go to church
every Sunday; but their French governess's convictions calling her to the
rival fane, and the fatigues of the week keeping their mother in her room
till luncheon, there was seldom any one present to verify the fact. Now
and then, in a spasmodic burst of virtue--when the house had been too
uproarious over night--Gus Trenor forced his genial bulk into a tight
frock-coat and routed his daughters from their slumbers; but habitually,
as Lily explained to Mr. Gryce, this parental duty was forgotten till the
church bells were ringing across the park, and the omnibus had driven
away empty.

Lily had hinted to Mr. Gryce that this neglect of religious observances
was repugnant to her early traditions, and that during her visits to
Bellomont she regularly accompanied Muriel and Hilda to church. This
tallied with the assurance, also confidentially imparted, that, never
having played bridge before, she had been "dragged into it" on the night
of her arrival, and had lost an appalling amount of money in consequence
of her ignorance of the game and of the rules of betting.  Mr. Gryce was
undoubtedly enjoying Bellomont. He liked the ease and glitter of the
life, and the lustre conferred on him by being a member of this group of
rich and conspicuous people.  But he thought it a very materialistic
society; there were times when he was frightened by the talk of the men
and the looks of the ladies, and he was glad to find that Miss Bart, for
all her ease and self-possession, was not at home in so ambiguous an
atmosphere. For this reason he had been especially pleased to learn that
she would, as usual, attend the young Trenors to church on Sunday
morning; and as he paced the gravel sweep before the door, his light
overcoat on his arm and his prayer-book in one carefully-gloved hand, he
reflected agreeably on the strength of character which kept her true to
her early training in surroundings so subversive to religious principles.

For a long time Mr. Gryce and the omnibus had the gravel sweep to
themselves; but, far from regretting this deplorable indifference on the
part of the other guests, he found himself nourishing the hope that Miss
Bart might be unaccompanied. The precious minutes were flying, however;
the big chestnuts pawed the ground and flecked their impatient sides with
foam; the coachman seemed to be slowly petrifying on the box, and the
groom on the doorstep; and still the lady did not come.  Suddenly,
however, there was a sound of voices and a rustle of skirts in the
doorway, and Mr. Gryce, restoring his watch to his pocket, turned with a
nervous start; but it was only to find himself handing Mrs. Wetherall
into the carriage.

The Wetheralls always went to church. They belonged to the vast group of
human automata who go through life without neglecting to perform a single
one of the gestures executed by the surrounding puppets. It is true that
the Bellomont puppets did not go to church; but others equally important
did--and Mr. and Mrs. Wetherall's circle was so large that God was
included in their visiting-list. They appeared, therefore, punctual and
resigned, with the air of people bound for a dull "At Home," and after
them Hilda and Muriel straggled, yawning and pinning each other's veils
and ribbons as they came. They had promised Lily to go to church with
her, they declared, and Lily was such a dear old duck that they didn't
mind doing it to please her, though they couldn't fancy what had put the
idea in her head, and though for their own part they would much rather
have played lawn tennis with Jack and Gwen, if she hadn't told them she
was coming. The Misses Trenor were followed by Lady Cressida Raith, a
weather-beaten person in Liberty silk and ethnological trinkets, who, on
seeing the omnibus, expressed her surprise that they were not to walk
across the park; but at Mrs. Wetherall's horrified protest that the
church was a mile away, her ladyship, after a glance at the height of the
other's heels, acquiesced in the necessity of driving, and poor Mr. Gryce
found himself rolling off between four ladies for whose spiritual welfare
he felt not the least concern.

It might have afforded him some consolation could he have known that Miss
Bart had really meant to go to church. She had even risen earlier than
usual in the execution of her purpose. She had an idea that the sight of
her in a grey gown of devotional cut, with her famous lashes drooped
above a prayer-book, would put the finishing touch to Mr. Gryce's
subjugation, and render inevitable a certain incident which she had
resolved should form a part of the walk they were to take together after
luncheon. Her intentions in short had never been more definite; but poor
Lily, for all the hard glaze of her exterior, was inwardly as malleable
as wax. Her faculty for adapting herself, for entering into other
people's feelings, if it served her now and then in small contingencies,
hampered her in the decisive moments of life. She was like a water-plant
in the flux of the tides, and today the whole current of her mood was
carrying her toward Lawrence Selden. Why had he come? Was it to see
herself or Bertha Dorset?  It was the last question which, at that
moment, should have engaged her. She might better have contented herself
with thinking that he had simply responded to the despairing summons of
his hostess, anxious to interpose him between herself and the ill-humour
of Mrs. Dorset. But Lily had not rested till she learned from Mrs. Trenor
that Selden had come of his own accord.  "He didn't even wire me--he just
happened to find the trap at the station. Perhaps it's not over with
Bertha after all," Mrs. Trenor musingly concluded; and went away to
arrange her dinner-cards accordingly.

Perhaps it was not, Lily reflected; but it should be soon, unless she had
lost her cunning. If Selden had come at Mrs. Dorset's call, it was at her
own that he would stay. So much the previous evening had told her. Mrs.
Trenor, true to her simple principle of making her married friends happy,
had placed Selden and Mrs. Dorset next to each other at dinner; but, in
obedience to the time-honoured traditions of the match-maker, she had
separated Lily and Mr. Gryce, sending in the former with George Dorset,
while Mr. Gryce was coupled with Gwen Van Osburgh.

George Dorset's talk did not interfere with the range of his neighbour's
thoughts. He was a mournful dyspeptic, intent on finding out the
deleterious ingredients of every dish and diverted from this care only by
the sound of his wife's voice. On this occasion, however, Mrs. Dorset
took no part in the general conversation. She sat talking in low murmurs
with Selden, and turning a contemptuous and denuded shoulder toward her
host, who, far from resenting his exclusion, plunged into the excesses of
the MENU with the joyous irresponsibility of a free man. To Mr. Dorset,
however, his wife's attitude was a subject of such evident concern that,
when he was not scraping the sauce from his fish, or scooping the moist
bread-crumbs from the interior of his roll, he sat straining his thin
neck for a glimpse of her between the lights.

Mrs. Trenor, as it chanced, had placed the husband and wife on opposite
sides of the table, and Lily was therefore able to observe Mrs. Dorset
also, and by carrying her glance a few feet farther, to set up a rapid
comparison between Lawrence Selden and Mr. Gryce. It was that comparison
which was her undoing. Why else had she suddenly grown interested in
Selden? She had known him for eight years or more: ever since her return
to America he had formed a part of her background. She had always been
glad to sit next to him at dinner, had found him more agreeable than most
men, and had vaguely wished that he possessed the other qualities needful
to fix her attention; but till now she had been too busy with her own
affairs to regard him as more than one of the pleasant accessories of
life. Miss Bart was a keen reader of her own heart, and she saw that her
sudden preoccupation with Selden was due to the fact that his presence
shed a new light on her surroundings. Not that he was notably brilliant
or exceptional; in his own profession he was surpassed by more than one
man who had bored Lily through many a weary dinner. It was rather that he
had preserved a certain social detachment, a happy air of viewing the
show objectively, of having points of contact outside the great gilt cage
in which they were all huddled for the mob to gape at. How alluring the
world outside the cage appeared to Lily, as she heard its door clang on
her! In reality, as she knew, the door never clanged: it stood always
open; but most of the captives were like flies in a bottle, and having
once flown in, could never regain their freedom. It was Selden's
distinction that he had never forgotten the way out.

That was the secret of his way of readjusting her vision. Lily, turning
her eyes from him, found herself scanning her little world through his
retina: it was as though the pink lamps had been shut off and the dusty
daylight let in. She looked down the long table, studying its occupants
one by one, from Gus Trenor, with his heavy carnivorous head sunk between
his shoulders, as he preyed on a jellied plover, to his wife, at the
opposite end of the long bank of orchids, suggestive, with her glaring
good-looks, of a jeweller's window lit by electricity. And between the
two, what a long stretch of vacuity! How dreary and trivial these people
were! Lily reviewed them with a scornful impatience: Carry Fisher, with
her shoulders, her eyes, her divorces, her general air of embodying a
"spicy paragraph"; young Silverton, who had meant to live on
proof-reading and write an epic, and who now lived on his friends and had
become critical of truffles; Alice Wetherall, an animated visiting-list,
whose most fervid convictions turned on the wording of invitations and
the engraving of dinner-cards; Wetherall, with his perpetual nervous nod
of acquiescence, his air of agreeing with people before he knew what they
were saying; Jack Stepney, with his confident smile and anxious eyes,
half way between the sheriff and an heiress; Gwen Van Osburgh, with all
the guileless confidence of a young girl who has always been told that
there is no one richer than her father.

Lily smiled at her classification of her friends. How different they had
seemed to her a few hours ago! Then they had symbolized what she was
gaining, now they stood for what she was giving up.  That very afternoon
they had seemed full of brilliant qualities; now she saw that they were
merely dull in a loud way. Under the glitter of their opportunities she
saw the poverty of their achievement. It was not that she wanted them to
be more disinterested; but she would have liked them to be more
picturesque. And she had a shamed recollection of the way in which, a few
hours since, she had felt the centripetal force of their standards. She
closed her eyes an instant, and the vacuous routine of the life she had
chosen stretched before her like a long white road without dip or
turning: it was true she was to roll over it in a carriage instead of
trudging it on foot, but sometimes the pedestrian enjoys the diversion of
a short cut which is denied to those on wheels.

She was roused by a chuckle which Mr. Dorset seemed to eject from the
depths of his lean throat.

"I say, do look at her," he exclaimed, turning to Miss Bart with
lugubrious merriment--"I beg your pardon, but do just look at my wife
making a fool of that poor devil over there! One would really suppose she
was gone on him--and it's all the other way round, I assure you."

Thus adjured, Lily turned her eyes on the spectacle which was affording
Mr. Dorset such legitimate mirth. It certainly appeared, as he said, that
Mrs. Dorset was the more active participant in the scene: her neighbour
seemed to receive her advances with a temperate zest which did not
distract him from his dinner. The sight restored Lily's good humour, and
knowing the peculiar disguise which Mr. Dorset's marital fears assumed,
she asked gaily: "Aren't you horribly jealous of her?"

Dorset greeted the sally with delight. "Oh, abominably--you've just hit
it--keeps me awake at night. The doctors tell me that's what has knocked
my digestion out--being so infernally jealous of her.--I can't eat a
mouthful of this stuff, you know," he added suddenly, pushing back his
plate with a clouded countenance; and Lily, unfailingly adaptable,
accorded her radiant attention to his prolonged denunciation of other
people's cooks, with a supplementary tirade on the toxic qualities of
melted butter.

It was not often that he found so ready an ear; and, being a man as well
as a dyspeptic, it may be that as he poured his grievances into it he was
not insensible to its rosy symmetry. At any rate he engaged Lily so long
that the sweets were being handed when she caught a phrase on her other
side, where Miss Corby, the comic woman of the company, was bantering
Jack Stepney on his approaching engagement. Miss Corby's role was
jocularity: she always entered the conversation with a handspring.

"And of course you'll have Sim Rosedale as best man!" Lily heard her
fling out as the climax of her prognostications; and Stepney responded,
as if struck: "Jove, that's an idea. What a thumping present I'd get out
of him!"

SIM ROSEDALE! The name, made more odious by its diminutive, obtruded
itself on Lily's thoughts like a leer. It stood for one of the many hated
possibilities hovering on the edge of life. If she did not marry Percy
Gryce, the day might come when she would have to be civil to such men as
Rosedale. IF SHE DID NOT MARRY HIM? But she meant to marry him--she was
sure of him and sure of herself. She drew back with a shiver from the
pleasant paths in which her thoughts had been straying, and set her feet
once more in the middle of the long white road....  When she went
upstairs that night she found that the late post had brought her a fresh
batch of bills. Mrs. Peniston, who was a conscientious woman, had
forwarded them all to Bellomont.

Miss Bart, accordingly, rose the next morning with the most earnest
conviction that it was her duty to go to church. She tore herself betimes
from the lingering enjoyment of her breakfast-tray, rang to have her grey
gown laid out, and despatched her maid to borrow a prayer-book from Mrs.
Trenor.

But her course was too purely reasonable not to contain the germs of
rebellion. No sooner were her preparations made than they roused a
smothered sense of resistance. A small spark was enough to kindle Lily's
imagination, and the sight of the grey dress and the borrowed prayer-book
flashed a long light down the years. She would have to go to church with
Percy Gryce every Sunday. They would have a front pew in the most
expensive church in New York, and his name would figure handsomely in the
list of parish charities. In a few years, when he grew stouter, he would
be made a warden. Once in the winter the rector would come to dine, and
her husband would beg her to go over the list and see that no DIVORCEES
were included, except those who had showed signs of penitence by being
re-married to the very wealthy. There was nothing especially arduous in
this round of religious obligations; but it stood for a fraction of that
great bulk of boredom which loomed across her path. And who could consent
to be bored on such a morning?  Lily had slept well, and her bath had
filled her with a pleasant glow, which was becomingly reflected in the
clear curve of her cheek. No lines were visible this morning, or else the
glass was at a happier angle.

And the day was the accomplice of her mood: it was a day for impulse and
truancy. The light air seemed full of powdered gold; below the dewy bloom
of the lawns the woodlands blushed and smouldered, and the hills across
the river swam in molten blue.  Every drop of blood in Lily's veins
invited her to happiness.

The sound of wheels roused her from these musings, and leaning behind her
shutters she saw the omnibus take up its freight. She was too late,
then--but the fact did not alarm her. A glimpse of Mr. Gryce's
crestfallen face even suggested that she had done wisely in absenting
herself, since the disappointment he so candidly betrayed would surely
whet his appetite for the afternoon walk. That walk she did not mean to
miss; one glance at the bills on her writing-table was enough to recall
its necessity. But meanwhile she had the morning to herself, and could
muse pleasantly on the disposal of its hours. She was familiar enough
with the habits of Bellomont to know that she was likely to have a free
field till luncheon. She had seen the Wetheralls, the Trenor girls and
Lady Cressida packed safely into the omnibus; Judy Trenor was sure to be
having her hair shampooed; Carry Fisher had doubtless carried off her
host for a drive; Ned Silverton was probably smoking the cigarette of
young despair in his bedroom; and Kate Corby was certain to be playing
tennis with Jack Stepney and Miss Van Osburgh. Of the ladies, this left
only Mrs. Dorset unaccounted for, and Mrs. Dorset never came down till
luncheon: her doctors, she averred, had forbidden her to expose herself
to the crude air of the morning.

To the remaining members of the party Lily gave no special thought;
wherever they were, they were not likely to interfere with her plans.
These, for the moment, took the shape of assuming a dress somewhat more
rustic and summerlike in style than the garment she had first selected,
and rustling downstairs, sunshade in hand, with the disengaged air of a
lady in quest of exercise. The great hall was empty but for the knot of
dogs by the fire, who, taking in at a glance the outdoor aspect of Miss
Bart, were upon her at once with lavish offers of companionship.  She put
aside the ramming paws which conveyed these offers, and assuring the
joyous volunteers that she might presently have a use for their company,
sauntered on through the empty drawing-room to the library at the end of
the house. The library was almost the only surviving portion of the old
manor-house of Bellomont: a long spacious room, revealing the traditions
of the mother-country in its classically-cased doors, the Dutch tiles of
the chimney, and the elaborate hob-grate with its shining brass urns. A
few family portraits of lantern-jawed gentlemen in tie-wigs, and ladies
with large head-dresses and small bodies, hung between the shelves lined
with pleasantly-shabby books: books mostly contemporaneous with the
ancestors in question, and to which the subsequent Trenors had made no
perceptible additions. The library at Bellomont was in fact never used
for reading, though it had a certain popularity as a smoking-room or a
quiet retreat for flirtation. It had occurred to Lily, however, that it
might on this occasion have been resorted to by the only member of the
party in the least likely to put it to its original use. She advanced
noiselessly over the dense old rug scattered with easy-chairs, and before
she reached the middle of the room she saw that she had not been
mistaken. Lawrence Selden was in fact seated at its farther end; but
though a book lay on his knee, his attention was not engaged with it, but
directed to a lady whose lace-clad figure, as she leaned back in an
adjoining chair, detached itself with exaggerated slimness against the
dusky leather upholstery.

Lily paused as she caught sight of the group; for a moment she seemed
about to withdraw, but thinking better of this, she announced her
approach by a slight shake of her skirts which made the couple raise
their heads, Mrs. Dorset with a look of frank displeasure, and Selden
with his usual quiet smile. The sight of his composure had a disturbing
effect on Lily; but to be disturbed was in her case to make a more
brilliant effort at self-possession.

"Dear me, am I late?" she asked, putting a hand in his as he advanced to
greet her.

"Late for what?" enquired Mrs. Dorset tartly. "Not for luncheon,
certainly--but perhaps you had an earlier engagement?"

"Yes, I had," said Lily confidingly.

"Really? Perhaps I am in the way, then? But Mr. Selden is entirely at
your disposal." Mrs. Dorset was pale with temper, and her antagonist felt
a certain pleasure in prolonging her distress.

"Oh, dear, no--do stay," she said good-humouredly. "I don't in the least
want to drive you away."

"You're awfully good, dear, but I never interfere with Mr. Selden's
engagements."

The remark was uttered with a little air of proprietorship not lost on
its object, who concealed a faint blush of annoyance by stooping to pick
up the book he had dropped at Lily's approach.  The latter's eyes widened
charmingly and she broke into a light laugh.

"But I have no engagement with Mr. Selden! My engagement was to go to
church; and I'm afraid the omnibus has started without me.  HAS it
started, do you know?"

She turned to Selden, who replied that he had heard it drive away some
time since.

"Ah, then I shall have to walk; I promised Hilda and Muriel to go to
church with them. It's too late to walk there, you say? Well, I shall
have the credit of trying, at any rate--and the advantage of escaping
part of the service. I'm not so sorry for myself, after all!"

And with a bright nod to the couple on whom she had intruded, Miss Bart
strolled through the glass doors and carried her rustling grace down the
long perspective of the garden walk.

She was taking her way churchward, but at no very quick pace; a fact not
lost on one of her observers, who stood in the doorway looking after her
with an air of puzzled amusement. The truth is that she was conscious of
a somewhat keen shock of disappointment. All her plans for the day had
been built on the assumption that it was to see her that Selden had come
to Bellomont. She had expected, when she came downstairs, to find him on
the watch for her; and she had found him, instead, in a situation which
might well denote that he had been on the watch for another lady. Was it
possible, after all, that he had come for Bertha Dorset? The latter had
acted on the assumption to the extent of appearing at an hour when she
never showed herself to ordinary mortals, and Lily, for the moment, saw
no way of putting her in the wrong. It did not occur to her that Selden
might have been actuated merely by the desire to spend a Sunday out of
town: women never learn to dispense with the sentimental motive in their
judgments of men. But Lily was not easily disconcerted; competition put
her on her mettle, and she reflected that Selden's coming, if it did not
declare him to be still in Mrs. Dorset's toils, showed him to be so
completely free from them that he was not afraid of her proximity.

These thoughts so engaged her that she fell into a gait hardly likely to
carry her to church before the sermon, and at length, having passed from
the gardens to the wood-path beyond, so far forgot her intention as to
sink into a rustic seat at a bend of the walk. The spot was charming, and
Lily was not insensible to the charm, or to the fact that her presence
enhanced it; but she was not accustomed to taste the joys of solitude
except in company, and the combination of a handsome girl and a romantic
scene struck her as too good to be wasted. No one, however, appeared to
profit by the opportunity; and after a half hour of fruitless waiting she
rose and wandered on. She felt a stealing sense of fatigue as she walked;
the sparkle had died out of her, and the taste of life was stale on her
lips. She hardly knew what she had been seeking, or why the failure to
find it had so blotted the light from her sky: she was only aware of a
vague sense of failure, of an inner isolation deeper than the loneliness
about her.

Her footsteps flagged, and she stood gazing listlessly ahead, digging the
ferny edge of the path with the tip of her sunshade.  As she did so a
step sounded behind her, and she saw Selden at her side.

"How fast you walk!" he remarked. "I thought I should never catch up with
you."

She answered gaily: "You must be quite breathless! I've been sitting
under that tree for an hour."

"Waiting for me, I hope?" he rejoined; and she said with a vague laugh:

"Well--waiting to see if you would come."

"I seize the distinction, but I don't mind it, since doing the one
involved doing the other. But weren't you sure that I should come?"

"If I waited long enough--but you see I had only a limited time to give
to the experiment."

"Why limited? Limited by luncheon?"

"No; by my other engagement."

"Your engagement to go to church with Muriel and Hilda?"

"No; but to come home from church with another person."

"Ah, I see; I might have known you were fully provided with alternatives.
And is the other person coming home this way?"

Lily laughed again. "That's just what I don't know; and to find out, it
is my business to get to church before the service is over."

"Exactly; and it is my business to prevent your doing so; in which case
the other person, piqued by your absence, will form the desperate resolve
of driving back in the omnibus."

Lily received this with fresh appreciation; his nonsense was like the
bubbling of her inner mood. "Is that what you would do in such an
emergency?" she enquired.

Selden looked at her with solemnity. "I am here to prove to you," he
cried, "what I am capable of doing in an emergency!"

"Walking a mile in an hour--you must own that the omnibus would be
quicker!"

"Ah--but will he find you in the end? That's the only test of success."

They looked at each other with the same luxury of enjoyment that they had
felt in exchanging absurdities over his tea-table; but suddenly Lily's
face changed, and she said: "Well, if it is, he has succeeded."

Selden, following her glance, perceived a party of people advancing
toward them from the farther bend of the path. Lady Cressida had
evidently insisted on walking home, and the rest of the church-goers had
thought it their duty to accompany her. Lily's companion looked rapidly
from one to the other of the two men of the party; Wetherall walking
respectfully at Lady Cressida's side with his little sidelong look of
nervous attention, and Percy Gryce bringing up the rear with Mrs.
Wetherall and the Trenors.

"Ah--now I see why you were getting up your Americana!" Selden exclaimed
with a note of the freest admiration but the blush with which the sally
was received checked whatever amplifications he had meant to give it.

That Lily Bart should object to being bantered about her suitors, or even
about her means of attracting them, was so new to Selden that he had a
momentary flash of surprise, which lit up a number of possibilities; but
she rose gallantly to the defence of her confusion, by saying, as its
object approached: "That was why I was waiting for you--to thank you for
having given me so many points!"

"Ah, you can hardly do justice to the subject in such a short time," said
Selden, as the Trenor girls caught sight of Miss Bart; and while she
signalled a response to their boisterous greeting, he added quickly:
"Won't you devote your afternoon to it? You know I must be off tomorrow
morning. We'll take a walk, and you can thank me at your leisure."



Chapter 6

The afternoon was perfect. A deeper stillness possessed the air, and the
glitter of the American autumn was tempered by a haze which diffused the
brightness without dulling it.

In the woody hollows of the park there was already a faint chill; but as
the ground rose the air grew lighter, and ascending the long slopes
beyond the high-road, Lily and her companion reached a zone of lingering
summer. The path wound across a meadow with scattered trees; then it
dipped into a lane plumed with asters and purpling sprays of bramble,
whence, through the light quiver of ash-leaves, the country unrolled
itself in pastoral distances.

Higher up, the lane showed thickening tufts of fern and of the creeping
glossy verdure of shaded slopes; trees began to overhang it, and the
shade deepened to the checkered dusk of a beech-grove. The boles of the
trees stood well apart, with only a light feathering of undergrowth; the
path wound along the edge of the wood, now and then looking out on a
sunlit pasture or on an orchard spangled with fruit.

Lily had no real intimacy with nature, but she had a passion for the
appropriate and could be keenly sensitive to a scene which was the
fitting background of her own sensations. The landscape outspread below
her seemed an enlargement of her present mood, and she found something of
herself in its calmness, its breadth, its long free reaches. On the
nearer slopes the sugar-maples wavered like pyres of light; lower down
was a massing of grey orchards, and here and there the lingering green of
an oak-grove.  Two or three red farm-houses dozed under the apple-trees,
and the white wooden spire of a village church showed beyond the shoulder
of the hill; while far below, in a haze of dust, the high-road ran
between the fields.

"Let us sit here," Selden suggested, as they reached an open ledge of
rock above which the beeches rose steeply between mossy boulders.

Lily dropped down on the rock, glowing with her long climb. She sat
quiet, her lips parted by the stress of the ascent, her eyes wandering
peacefully over the broken ranges of the landscape. Selden stretched
himself on the grass at her feet, tilting his hat against the level
sun-rays, and clasping his hands behind his head, which rested against
the side of the rock.  He had no wish to make her talk; her
quick-breathing silence seemed a part of the general hush and harmony of
things. In his own mind there was only a lazy sense of pleasure, veiling
the sharp edges of sensation as the September haze veiled the scene at
their feet. But Lily, though her attitude was as calm as his, was
throbbing inwardly with a rush of thoughts. There were in her at the
moment two beings, one drawing deep breaths of freedom and exhilaration,
the other gasping for air in a little black prison-house of fears. But
gradually the captive's gasps grew fainter, or the other paid less heed
to them: the horizon expanded, the air grew stronger, and the free spirit
quivered for flight.

She could not herself have explained the sense of buoyancy which seemed
to lift and swing her above the sun-suffused world at her feet. Was it
love, she wondered, or a mere fortuitous combination of happy thoughts
and sensations? How much of it was owing to the spell of the perfect
afternoon, the scent of the fading woods, the thought of the dulness she
had fled from? Lily had no definite experience by which to test the
quality of her feelings.  She had several times been in love with
fortunes or careers, but only once with a man. That was years ago, when
she first came out, and had been smitten with a romantic passion for a
young gentleman named Herbert Melson, who had blue eyes and a little wave
in his hair. Mr. Melson, who was possessed of no other negotiable
securities, had hastened to employ these in capturing the eldest Miss Van
Osburgh: since then he had grown stout and wheezy, and was given to
telling anecdotes about his children. If Lily recalled this early emotion
it was not to compare it with that which now possessed her; the only
point of comparison was the sense of lightness, of emancipation, which
she remembered feeling, in the whirl of a waltz or the seclusion of a
conservatory, during the brief course of her youthful romance.  She had
not known again till today that lightness, that glow of freedom; but now
it was something more than a blind groping of the blood. The peculiar
charm of her feeling for Selden was that she understood it; she could put
her finger on every link of the chain that was drawing them together.
Though his popularity was of the quiet kind, felt rather than actively
expressed among his friends, she had never mistaken his inconspicuousness
for obscurity. His reputed cultivation was generally regarded as a slight
obstacle to easy intercourse, but Lily, who prided herself on her
broad-minded recognition of literature, and always carried an Omar Khayam
in her travelling-bag, was attracted by this attribute, which she felt
would have had its distinction in an older society. It was, moreover, one
of his gifts to look his part; to have a height which lifted his head
above the crowd, and the keenly-modelled dark features which, in a land
of amorphous types, gave him the air of belonging to a more specialized
race, of carrying the impress of a concentrated past. Expansive persons
found him a little dry, and very young girls thought him sarcastic; but
this air of friendly aloofness, as far removed as possible from any
assertion of personal advantage, was the quality which piqued Lily's
interest.  Everything about him accorded with the fastidious element in
her taste, even to the light irony with which he surveyed what seemed to
her most sacred. She admired him most of all, perhaps, for being able to
convey as distinct a sense of superiority as the richest man she had ever
met.

It was the unconscious prolongation of this thought which led her to say
presently, with a laugh: "I have broken two engagements for you today.
How many have you broken for me?"

"None," said Selden calmly. "My only engagement at Bellomont was with
you."

She glanced down at him, faintly smiling.

"Did you really come to Bellomont to see me?"

"Of course I did."

Her look deepened meditatively. "Why?" she murmured, with an accent which
took all tinge of coquetry from the question.

"Because you're such a wonderful spectacle: I always like to see what you
are doing."

"How do you know what I should be doing if you were not here?"

Selden smiled. "I don't flatter myself that my coming has deflected your
course of action by a hair's breadth."

"That's absurd--since, if you were not here, I could obviously not be
taking a walk with you."

"No; but your taking a walk with me is only another way of making use of
your material. You are an artist and I happen to be the bit of colour you
are using today. It's a part of your cleverness to be able to produce
premeditated effects extemporaneously."

Lily smiled also: his words were too acute not to strike her sense of
humour. It was true that she meant to use the accident of his presence as
part of a very definite effect; or that, at least, was the secret pretext
she had found for breaking her promise to walk with Mr. Gryce.  She had
sometimes been accused of being too eager--even Judy Trenor had warned
her to go slowly.  Well, she would not be too eager in this case; she
would give her suitor a longer taste of suspense. Where duty and
inclination jumped together, it was not in Lily's nature to hold them
asunder. She had excused herself from the walk on the plea of a headache:
the horrid headache which, in the morning, had prevented her venturing to
church. Her appearance at luncheon justified the excuse.  She looked
languid, full of a suffering sweetness; she carried a scent-bottle in her
hand. Mr. Gryce was new to such manifestations; he wondered rather
nervously if she were delicate, having far-reaching fears about the
future of his progeny. But sympathy won the day, and he besought her not
to expose herself: he always connected the outer air with ideas of
exposure.

Lily had received his sympathy with languid gratitude, urging him, since
she should be such poor company, to join the rest of the party who, after
luncheon, were starting in automobiles on a visit to the Van Osburghs at
Peekskill. Mr. Gryce was touched by her disinterestedness, and, to escape
from the threatened vacuity of the afternoon, had taken her advice and
departed mournfully, in a dust-hood and goggles: as the motor-car plunged
down the avenue she smiled at his resemblance to a baffled beetle. Selden
had watched her manoeuvres with lazy amusement.  She had made no reply to
his suggestion that they should spend the afternoon together, but as her
plan unfolded itself he felt fairly confident of being included in it.
The house was empty when at length he heard her step on the stair and
strolled out of the billiard-room to join her.

She had on a hat and walking-dress, and the dogs were bounding at her
feet.

"I thought, after all, the air might do me good," she explained; and he
agreed that so simple a remedy was worth trying.

The excursionists would be gone at least four hours; Lily and Selden had
the whole afternoon before them, and the sense of leisure and safety gave
the last touch of lightness to her spirit. With so much time to talk, and
no definite object to be led up to, she could taste the rare joys of
mental vagrancy.

She felt so free from ulterior motives that she took up his charge with a
touch of resentment.

"I don't know," she said, "why you are always accusing me of
premeditation."

"I thought you confessed to it: you told me the other day that you had to
follow a certain line--and if one does a thing at all it is a merit to do
it thoroughly."

"If you mean that a girl who has no one to think for her is obliged to
think for herself, I am quite willing to accept the imputation. But you
must find me a dismal kind of person if you suppose that I never yield to
an impulse."

"Ah, but I don't suppose that: haven't I told you that your genius lies
in converting impulses into intentions?"

"My genius?" she echoed with a sudden note of weariness. "Is there any
final test of genius but success? And I certainly haven't succeeded."

Selden pushed his hat back and took a side-glance at her.  "Success--what
is success? I shall be interested to have your definition."

"Success?" She hesitated. "Why, to get as much as one can out of life, I
suppose. It's a relative quality, after all. Isn't that your idea of it?"

"My idea of it? God forbid!" He sat up with sudden energy, resting his
elbows on his knees and staring out upon the mellow fields. "My idea of
success," he said, "is personal freedom."

"Freedom? Freedom from worries?"

"From everything--from money, from poverty, from ease and anxiety, from
all the material accidents. To keep a kind of republic of the
spirit--that's what I call success."

She leaned forward with a responsive flash. "I know--I know--it's
strange; but that's just what I've been feeling today."

He met her eyes with the latent sweetness of his. "Is the feeling so rare
with you?" he said.

She blushed a little under his gaze. "You think me horribly sordid, don't
you? But perhaps it's rather that I never had any choice. There was no
one, I mean, to tell me about the republic of the spirit."

"There never is--it's a country one has to find the way to one's self."

"But I should never have found my way there if you hadn't told me."

"Ah, there are sign-posts--but one has to know how to read them."

"Well, I have known, I have known!" she cried with a glow of eagerness.
"Whenever I see you, I find myself spelling out a letter of the sign--and
yesterday--last evening at dinner--I suddenly saw a little way into your
republic."

Selden was still looking at her, but with a changed eye. Hitherto he had
found, in her presence and her talk, the aesthetic amusement which a
reflective man is apt to seek in desultory intercourse with pretty women.
His attitude had been one of admiring spectatorship, and he would have
been almost sorry to detect in her any emotional weakness which should
interfere with the fulfilment of her aims. But now the hint of this
weakness had become the most interesting thing about her.  He had come on
her that morning in a moment of disarray; her face had been pale and
altered, and the diminution of her beauty had lent her a poignant charm.
THAT IS HOW SHE LOOKS WHEN SHE IS ALONE! had been his first thought; and
the second was to note in her the change which his coming produced. It
was the danger-point of their intercourse that he could not doubt the
spontaneity of her liking. From whatever angle he viewed their dawning
intimacy, he could not see it as part of her scheme of life; and to be
the unforeseen element in a career so accurately planned was stimulating
even to a man who had renounced sentimental experiments.

"Well," he said, "did it make you want to see more? Are you going to
become one of us?"

He had drawn out his cigarettes as he spoke, and she reached her hand
toward the case.

"Oh, do give me one--I haven't smoked for days!"

"Why such unnatural abstinence? Everybody smokes at Bellomont."

"Yes--but it is not considered becoming in a JEUNE FILLE A MARIER; and at
the present moment I am a JEUNE FILLE A MARIER."

"Ah, then I'm afraid we can't let you into the republic."

"Why not? Is it a celibate order?"

"Not in the least, though I'm bound to say there are not many married
people in it. But you will marry some one very rich, and it's as hard for
rich people to get into as the kingdom of heaven."

"That's unjust, I think, because, as I understand it, one of the
conditions of citizenship is not to think too much about money, and the
only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it."

"You might as well say that the only way not to think about air is to
have enough to breathe. That is true enough in a sense; but your lungs
are thinking about the air, if you are not. And so it is with your rich
people--they may not be thinking of money, but they're breathing it all
the while; take them into another element and see how they squirm and
gasp!"

Lily sat gazing absently through the blue rings of her cigarette-smoke.

"It seems to me," she said at length, "that you spend a good deal of your
time in the element you disapprove of."

Selden received this thrust without discomposure. "Yes; but I have tried
to remain amphibious: it's all right as long as one's lungs can work in
another air. The real alchemy consists in being able to turn gold back
again into something else; and that's the secret that most of your
friends have lost."

Lily mused. "Don't you think," she rejoined after a moment, "that the
people who find fault with society are too apt to regard it as an end and
not a means, just as the people who despise money speak as if its only
use were to be kept in bags and gloated over? Isn't it fairer to look at
them both as opportunities, which may be used either stupidly or
intelligently, according to the capacity of the user?"

"That is certainly the sane view; but the queer thing about society is
that the people who regard it as an end are those who are in it, and not
the critics on the fence. It's just the other way with most shows--the
audience may be under the illusion, but the actors know that real life is
on the other side of the footlights. The people who take society as an
escape from work are putting it to its proper use; but when it becomes
the thing worked for it distorts all the relations of life." Selden
raised himself on his elbow. "Good heavens!" he went on, "I don't
underrate the decorative side of life. It seems to me the sense of
splendour has justified itself by what it has produced. The worst of it
is that so much human nature is used up in the process. If we're all the
raw stuff of the cosmic effects, one would rather be the fire that
tempers a sword than the fish that dyes a purple cloak. And a society
like ours wastes such good material in producing its little patch of
purple! Look at a boy like Ned Silverton--he's really too good to be used
to refurbish anybody's social shabbiness. There's a lad just setting out
to discover the universe: isn't it a pity he should end by finding it in
Mrs. Fisher's drawing-room?"

"Ned is a dear boy, and I hope he will keep his illusions long enough to
write some nice poetry about them; but do you think it is only in society
that he is likely to lose them?"

Selden answered her with a shrug. "Why do we call all our generous ideas
illusions, and the mean ones truths? Isn't it a sufficient condemnation
of society to find one's self accepting such phraseology?  I very nearly
acquired the jargon at Silverton's age, and I know how names can alter
the colour of beliefs."

She had never heard him speak with such energy of affirmation.  His
habitual touch was that of the eclectic, who lightly turns over and
compares; and she was moved by this sudden glimpse into the laboratory
where his faiths were formed.

"Ah, you are as bad as the other sectarians," she exclaimed; "why do you
call your republic a republic? It is a closed corporation, and you create
arbitrary objections in order to keep people out."

"It is not MY republic; if it were, I should have a COUP D'ETAT and seat
you on the throne."

"Whereas, in reality, you think I can never even get my foot across the
threshold? Oh, I understand what you mean. You despise my ambitions--you
think them unworthy of me!"

Selden smiled, but not ironically. "Well, isn't that a tribute? I think
them quite worthy of most of the people who live by them."

She had turned to gaze on him gravely. "But isn't it possible that, if I
had the opportunities of these people, I might make a better use of them?
Money stands for all kinds of things--its purchasing quality isn't
limited to diamonds and motor-cars."


"Not in the least: you might expiate your enjoyment of them by founding a
hospital."

"But if you think they are what I should really enjoy, you must think my
ambitions are good enough for me."

Selden met this appeal with a laugh. "Ah, my dear Miss Bart, I am not
divine Providence, to guarantee your enjoying the things you are trying
to get!"

"Then the best you can say for me is, that after struggling to get them I
probably shan't like them?" She drew a deep breath.  "What a miserable
future you foresee for me!"

"Well--have you never foreseen it for yourself?" The slow colour rose to
her cheek, not a blush of excitement but drawn from the deep wells of
feeling; it was as if the effort of her spirit had produced it.

"Often and often," she said. "But it looks so much darker when you show
it to me!"

He made no answer to this exclamation, and for a while they sat silent,
while something throbbed between them in the wide quiet of the air.

But suddenly she turned on him with a kind of vehemence. "Why do you do
this to me?" she cried. "Why do you make the things I have chosen seem
hateful to me, if you have nothing to give me instead?"

The words roused Selden from the musing fit into which he had fallen.  He
himself did not know why he had led their talk along such lines; it was
the last use he would have imagined himself making of an afternoon's
solitude with Miss Bart. But it was one of those moments when neither
seemed to speak deliberately, when an indwelling voice in each called to
the other across unsounded depths of feeling.

"No, I have nothing to give you instead," he said, sitting up and turning
so that he faced her. "If I had, it should be yours, you know."

She received this abrupt declaration in a way even stranger than the
manner of its making: she dropped her face on her hands and he saw that
for a moment she wept.

It was for a moment only, however; for when he leaned nearer and drew
down her hands with a gesture less passionate than grave, she turned on
him a face softened but not disfigured by emotion, and he said to
himself, somewhat cruelly, that even her weeping was an art.

The reflection steadied his voice as he asked, between pity and irony:
"Isn't it natural that I should try to belittle all the things I can't
offer you?"

Her face brightened at this, but she drew her hand away, not with a
gesture of coquetry, but as though renouncing something to which she had
no claim.

"But you belittle ME, don't you," she returned gently, "in being so sure
they are the only things I care for?"

Selden felt an inner start; but it was only the last quiver of his
egoism. Almost at once he answered quite simply: "But you do care for
them, don't you? And no wishing of mine can alter that."

He had so completely ceased to consider how far this might carry him,
that he had a distinct sense of disappointment when she turned on him a
face sparkling with derision.

"Ah," she cried, "for all your fine phrases you're really as great a
coward as I am, for you wouldn't have made one of them if you hadn't been
so sure of my answer."

The shock of this retort had the effect of crystallizing Selden's
wavering intentions.

"I am not so sure of your answer," he said quietly. "And I do you the
justice to believe that you are not either."

It was her turn to look at him with surprise; and after a moment--"Do you
want to marry me?" she asked.

He broke into a laugh. "No, I don't want to--but perhaps I should if you
did!"

"That's what I told you--you're so sure of me that you can amuse yourself
with experiments." She drew back the hand he had regained, and sat
looking down on him sadly.

"I am not making experiments," he returned. "Or if I am, it is not on you
but on myself. I don't know what effect they are going to have on me--but
if marrying you is one of them, I will take the risk."

She smiled faintly. "It would be a great risk, certainly--I have never
concealed from you how great."

"Ah, it's you who are the coward!" he exclaimed.

She had risen, and he stood facing her with his eyes on hers. The soft
isolation of the falling day enveloped them: they seemed lifted into a
finer air. All the exquisite influences of the hour trembled in their
veins, and drew them to each other as the loosened leaves were drawn to
the earth.

"It's you who are the coward," he repeated, catching her hands in his.

She leaned on him for a moment, as if with a drop of tired wings: he felt
as though her heart were beating rather with the stress of a long flight
than the thrill of new distances. Then, drawing back with a little smile
of warning--"I shall look hideous in dowdy clothes; but I can trim my own
hats," she declared.

They stood silent for a while after this, smiling at each other like
adventurous children who have climbed to a forbidden height from which
they discover a new world. The actual world at their feet was veiling
itself in dimness, and across the valley a clear moon rose in the denser
blue.

Suddenly they heard a remote sound, like the hum of a giant insect, and
following the high-road, which wound whiter through the surrounding
twilight, a black object rushed across their vision.

Lily started from her attitude of absorption; her smile faded and she
began to move toward the lane.

"I had no idea it was so late! We shall not be back till after dark," she
said, almost impatiently.

Selden was looking at her with surprise: it took him a moment to regain
his usual view of her; then he said, with an uncontrollable note of
dryness: "That was not one of our party; the motor was going the other
way."

"I know--I know----" She paused, and he saw her redden through the
twilight. "But I told them I was not well--that I should not go out.  Let
us go down!" she murmured.

Selden continued to look at her; then he drew his cigarette-case from his
pocket and slowly lit a cigarette. It seemed to him necessary, at that
moment, to proclaim, by some habitual gesture of this sort, his recovered
hold on the actual: he had an almost puerile wish to let his companion
see that, their flight over, he had landed on his feet.

She waited while the spark flickered under his curved palm; then he held
out the cigarettes to her.

She took one with an unsteady hand, and putting it to her lips, leaned
forward to draw her light from his. In the indistinctness the little red
gleam lit up the lower part of her face, and he saw her mouth tremble
into a smile.

"Were you serious?" she asked, with an odd thrill of gaiety which she
might have caught up, in haste, from a heap of stock inflections, without
having time to select the just note.  Selden's voice was under better
control. "Why not?" he returned.  "You see I took no risks in being so."
And as she continued to stand before him, a little pale under the retort,
he added quickly: "Let us go down."



Chapter 7

It spoke much for the depth of Mrs. Trenor's friendship that her voice,
in admonishing Miss Bart, took the same note of personal despair as if
she had been lamenting the collapse of a house-party.

"All I can say is, Lily, that I can't make you out!" She leaned back,
sighing, in the morning abandon of lace and muslin, turning an
indifferent shoulder to the heaped-up importunities of her desk, while
she considered, with the eye of a physician who has given up the case,
the erect exterior of the patient confronting her.

"If you hadn't told me you were going in for him seriously--but I'm sure
you made that plain enough from the beginning! Why else did you ask me to
let you off bridge, and to keep away Carry and Kate Corby? I don't
suppose you did it because he amused you; we could none of us imagine
your putting up with him for a moment unless you meant to marry him. And
I'm sure everybody played fair! They all wanted to help it along. Even
Bertha kept her hands off--I will say that--till Lawrence came down and
you dragged him away from her. After that she had a right to
retaliate--why on earth did you interfere with her? You've known Lawrence
Selden for years--why did you behave as if you had just discovered him?
If you had a grudge against Bertha it was a stupid time to show it--you
could have paid her back just as well after you were married! I told you
Bertha was dangerous. She was in an odious mood when she came here, but
Lawrence's turning up put her in a good humour, and if you'd only let her
think he came for HER it would have never occurred to her to play you
this trick. Oh, Lily, you'll never do anything if you're not serious!"

Miss Bart accepted this exhortation in a spirit of the purest
impartiality. Why should she have been angry? It was the voice of her own
conscience which spoke to her through Mrs. Trenor's reproachful accents.
But even to her own conscience she must trump up a semblance of defence.
"I only took a day off--I thought he meant to stay on all this week, and
I knew Mr. Selden was leaving this morning."

Mrs. Trenor brushed aside the plea with a gesture which laid bare its
weakness.

"He did mean to stay--that's the worst of it. It shows that he's run away
from you; that Bertha's done her work and poisoned him thoroughly."

Lily gave a slight laugh. "Oh, if he's running I'll overtake him!"

Her friend threw out an arresting hand. "Whatever you do, Lily, do
nothing!"

Miss Bart received the warning with a smile. "I don't mean, literally, to
take the next train. There are ways----" But she did not go on to specify
them.

Mrs. Trenor sharply corrected the tense. "There WERE ways--plenty of
them! I didn't suppose you needed to have them pointed out.  But don't
deceive yourself--he's thoroughly frightened. He has run straight home to
his mother, and she'll protect him!"

"Oh, to the death," Lily agreed, dimpling at the vision.

"How you can LAUGH----" her friend rebuked her; and she dropped back to a
soberer perception of things with the question: "What was it Bertha
really told him?"

"Don't ask me--horrors! She seemed to have raked up everything.  Oh, you
know what I mean--of course there isn't anything, REALLY; but I suppose
she brought in Prince Varigliano--and Lord Hubert--and there was some
story of your having borrowed money of old Ned Van Alstyne: did you ever?"

"He is my father's cousin," Miss Bart interposed.

"Well, of course she left THAT out. It seems Ned told Carry Fisher; and
she told Bertha, naturally. They're all alike, you know: they hold their
tongues for years, and you think you're safe, but when their opportunity
comes they remember everything."

Lily had grown pale: her voice had a harsh note in it. "It was some money
I lost at bridge at the Van Osburghs'. I repaid it, of course."

"Ah, well, they wouldn't remember that; besides, it was the idea of the
gambling debt that frightened Percy. Oh, Bertha knew her man--she knew
just what to tell him!"

In this strain Mrs. Trenor continued for nearly an hour to admonish her
friend. Miss Bart listened with admirable equanimity. Her naturally good
temper had been disciplined by years of enforced compliance, since she
had almost always had to attain her ends by the circuitous path of other
people's; and, being naturally inclined to face unpleasant facts as soon
as they presented themselves, she was not sorry to hear an impartial
statement of what her folly was likely to cost, the more so as her own
thoughts were still insisting on the other side of the case.  Presented
in the light of Mrs. Trenor's vigorous comments, the reckoning was
certainly a formidable one, and Lily, as she listened, found herself
gradually reverting to her friend's view of the situation. Mrs. Trenor's
words were moreover emphasized for her hearer by anxieties which she
herself could scarcely guess. Affluence, unless stimulated by a keen
imagination, forms but the vaguest notion of the practical strain of
poverty. Judy knew it must be "horrid" for poor Lily to have to stop to
consider whether she could afford real lace on her petticoats, and not to
have a motor-car and a steam-yacht at her orders; but the daily friction
of unpaid bills, the daily nibble of small temptations to expenditure,
were trials as far out of her experience as the domestic problems of the
char-woman. Mrs. Trenor's unconsciousness of the real stress of the
situation had the effect of making it more galling to Lily. While her
friend reproached her for missing the opportunity to eclipse her rivals,
she was once more battling in imagination with the mounting tide of
indebtedness from which she had so nearly escaped. What wind of folly had
driven her out again on those dark seas?

If anything was needed to put the last touch to her self-abasement it was
the sense of the way her old life was opening its ruts again to receive
her. Yesterday her fancy had fluttered free pinions above a choice of
occupations; now she had to drop to the level of the familiar routine, in
which moments of seeming brilliancy and freedom alternated with long
hours of subjection.

She laid a deprecating hand on her friend's. "Dear Judy! I'm sorry to
have been such a bore, and you are very good to me. But you must have
some letters for me to answer--let me at least be useful."

She settled herself at the desk, and Mrs. Trenor accepted her resumption
of the morning's task with a sigh which implied that, after all, she had
proved herself unfit for higher uses.

The luncheon table showed a depleted circle. All the men but Jack Stepney
and Dorset had returned to town (it seemed to Lily a last touch of irony
that Selden and Percy Gryce should have gone in the same train), and Lady
Cressida and the attendant Wetheralls had been despatched by motor to
lunch at a distant country-house.  At such moments of diminished interest
it was usual for Mrs. Dorset to keep her room till the afternoon; but on
this occasion she drifted in when luncheon was half over, hollowed-eyed
and drooping, but with an edge of malice under her indifference.

She raised her eyebrows as she looked about the table. "How few of us are
left! I do so enjoy the quiet--don't you, Lily? I wish the men would
always stop away--it's really much nicer without them. Oh, you don't
count, George: one doesn't have to talk to one's husband. But I thought
Mr. Gryce was to stay for the rest of the week?" she added enquiringly.
"Didn't he intend to, Judy?  He's such a nice boy--I wonder what drove
him away? He is rather shy, and I'm afraid we may have shocked him: he
has been brought up in such an old-fashioned way.  Do you know, Lily, he
told me he had never seen a girl play cards for money till he saw you
doing it the other night? And he lives on the interest of his income, and
always has a lot left over to invest!"

Mrs. Fisher leaned forward eagerly. "I do believe it is some one's duty
to educate that young man. It is shocking that he has never been made to
realize his duties as a citizen. Every wealthy man should be compelled to
study the laws of his country."

Mrs. Dorset glanced at her quietly. "I think he HAS studied the divorce
laws. He told me he had promised the Bishop to sign some kind of a
petition against divorce."

Mrs. Fisher reddened under her powder, and Stepney said with a laughing
glance at Miss Bart: "I suppose he is thinking of marriage, and wants to
tinker up the old ship before he goes aboard."

His betrothed looked shocked at the metaphor, and George Dorset exclaimed
with a sardonic growl: "Poor devil! It isn't the ship that will do for
him, it's the crew."

"Or the stowaways," said Miss Corby brightly. "If I contemplated a voyage
with him I should try to start with a friend in the hold."

Miss Van Osburgh's vague feeling of pique was struggling for appropriate
expression. "I'm sure I don't see why you laugh at him; I think he's very
nice," she exclaimed; "and, at any rate, a girl who married him would
always have enough to be comfortable."

She looked puzzled at the redoubled laughter which hailed her words, but
it might have consoled her to know how deeply they had sunk into the
breast of one of her hearers.

Comfortable! At that moment the word was more eloquent to Lily Bart than
any other in the language. She could not even pause to smile over the
heiress's view of a colossal fortune as a mere shelter against want: her
mind was filled with the vision of what that shelter might have been to
her. Mrs. Dorset's pin-pricks did not smart, for her own irony cut
deeper: no one could hurt her as much as she was hurting herself, for no
one else--not even Judy Trenor--knew the full magnitude of her folly.

She was roused from these unprofitable considerations by a whispered
request from her hostess, who drew her apart as they left the
luncheon-table.

"Lily, dear, if you've nothing special to do, may I tell Carry Fisher
that you intend to drive to the station and fetch Gus? He will be back at
four, and I know she has it in her mind to meet him. Of course I'm very
glad to have him amused, but I happen to know that she has bled him
rather severely since she's been here, and she is so keen about going to
fetch him that I fancy she must have got a lot more bills this morning.
It seems to me," Mrs. Trenor feelingly concluded, "that most of her
alimony is paid by other women's husbands!"

Miss Bart, on her way to the station, had leisure to muse over her
friend's words, and their peculiar application to herself.  Why should
she have to suffer for having once, for a few hours, borrowed money of an
elderly cousin, when a woman like Carry Fisher could make a living
unrebuked from the good-nature of her men friends and the tolerance of
their wives? It all turned on the tiresome distinction between what a
married woman might, and a girl might not, do. Of course it was shocking
for a married woman to borrow money--and Lily was expertly aware of the
implication involved--but still, it was the mere MALUM PROHIBITUM which
the world decries but condones, and which, though it may be punished by
private vengeance, does not provoke the collective disapprobation of
society. To Miss Bart, in short, no such opportunities were possible. She
could of course borrow from her women friends--a hundred here or there,
at the utmost--but they were more ready to give a gown or a trinket, and
looked a little askance when she hinted her preference for a cheque.
Women are not generous lenders, and those among whom her lot was cast
were either in the same case as herself, or else too far removed from it
to understand its necessities.  The result of her meditations was the
decision to join her aunt at Richfield. She could not remain at Bellomont
without playing bridge, and being involved in other expenses; and to
continue her usual series of autumn visits would merely prolong the same
difficulties. She had reached a point where abrupt retrenchment was
necessary, and the only cheap life was a dull life. She would start the
next morning for Richfield.

At the station she thought Gus Trenor seemed surprised, and not wholly
unrelieved, to see her. She yielded up the reins of the light runabout in
which she had driven over, and as he climbed heavily to her side,
crushing her into a scant third of the seat, he said: "Halloo! It isn't
often you honour me. You must have been uncommonly hard up for something
to do."

The afternoon was warm, and propinquity made her more than usually
conscious that he was red and massive, and that beads of moisture had
caused the dust of the train to adhere unpleasantly to the broad expanse
of cheek and neck which he turned to her; but she was aware also, from
the look in his small dull eyes, that the contact with her freshness and
slenderness was as agreeable to him as the sight of a cooling beverage.

The perception of this fact helped her to answer gaily: "It's not often I
have the chance. There are too many ladies to dispute the privilege with
me."

"The privilege of driving me home? Well, I'm glad you won the race,
anyhow. But I know what really happened--my wife sent you. Now didn't
she?"

He had the dull man's unexpected flashes of astuteness, and Lily could
not help joining in the laugh with which he had pounced on the truth.

"You see, Judy thinks I'm the safest person for you to be with; and she's
quite right," she rejoined.

"Oh, is she, though? If she is, it's because you wouldn't waste your time
on an old hulk like me. We married men have to put up with what we can
get: all the prizes are for the clever chaps who've kept a free foot. Let
me light a cigar, will you? I've had a beastly day of it."

He drew up in the shade of the village street, and passed the reins to
her while he held a match to his cigar. The little flame under his hand
cast a deeper crimson on his puffing face, and Lily averted her eyes with
a momentary feeling of repugnance. And yet some women thought him
handsome!

As she handed back the reins, she said sympathetically: "Did you have
such a lot of tiresome things to do?"

"I should say so--rather!" Trenor, who was seldom listened to, either by
his wife or her friends, settled down into the rare enjoyment of a
confidential talk. "You don't know how a fellow has to hustle to keep
this kind of thing going." He waved his whip in the direction of the
Bellomont acres, which lay outspread before them in opulent undulations.
"Judy has no idea of what she spends--not that there isn't plenty to keep
the thing going," he interrupted himself, "but a man has got to keep his
eyes open and pick up all the tips he can. My father and mother used to
live like fighting-cocks on their income, and put by a good bit of it
too--luckily for me--but at the pace we go now, I don't know where I
should be if it weren't for taking a flyer now and then.  The women all
think--I mean Judy thinks--I've nothing to do but to go down town once a
month and cut off coupons, but the truth is it takes a devilish lot of
hard work to keep the machinery running. Not that I ought to complain
to-day, though," he went on after a moment, "for I did a very neat stroke
of business, thanks to Stepney's friend Rosedale: by the way, Miss Lily,
I wish you'd try to persuade Judy to be decently civil to that chap. He's
going to be rich enough to buy us all out one of these days, and if she'd
only ask him to dine now and then I could get almost anything out of him.
The man is mad to know the people who don't want to know him, and when a
fellow's in that state there is nothing he won't do for the first woman
who takes him up."

Lily hesitated a moment. The first part of her companion's discourse had
started an interesting train of thought, which was rudely interrupted by
the mention of Mr. Rosedale's name. She uttered a faint protest.

"But you know Jack did try to take him about, and he was impossible."

"Oh, hang it--because he's fat and shiny, and has a sloppy manner!  Well,
all I can say is that the people who are clever enough to be civil to him
now will make a mighty good thing of it. A few years from now he'll be in
it whether we want him or not, and then he won't be giving away a
half-a-million tip for a dinner."

Lily's mind had reverted from the intrusive personality of Mr. Rosedale
to the train of thought set in motion by Trenor's first words. This vast
mysterious Wall Street world of "tips" and "deals"--might she not find in
it the means of escape from her dreary predicament? She had often heard
of women making money in this way through their friends: she had no more
notion than most of her sex of the exact nature of the transaction, and
its vagueness seemed to diminish its indelicacy. She could not, indeed,
imagine herself, in any extremity, stooping to extract a "tip" from Mr.
Rosedale; but at her side was a man in possession of that precious
commodity, and who, as the husband of her dearest friend, stood to her in
a relation of almost fraternal intimacy.

In her inmost heart Lily knew it was not by appealing to the fraternal
instinct that she was likely to move Gus Trenor; but this way of
explaining the situation helped to drape its crudity, and she was always
scrupulous about keeping up appearances to herself. Her personal
fastidiousness had a moral equivalent, and when she made a tour of
inspection in her own mind there were certain closed doors she did not
open.

As they reached the gates of Bellomont she turned to Trenor with a smile.
"The afternoon is so perfect--don't you want to drive me a little
farther? I've been rather out of spirits all day, and it's so restful to
be away from people, with some one who won't mind if I'm a little dull."

She looked so plaintively lovely as she proffered the request, so
trustfully sure of his sympathy and understanding, that Trenor felt
himself wishing that his wife could see how other women treated him--not
battered wire-pullers like Mrs. Fisher, but a girl that most men would
have given their boots to get such a look from.

"Out of spirits? Why on earth should you ever be out of spirits?  Is your
last box of Doucet dresses a failure, or did Judy rook you out of
everything at bridge last night?"

Lily shook her head with a sigh. "I have had to give up Doucet; and
bridge too--I can't afford it. In fact I can't afford any of the things
my friends do, and I am afraid Judy often thinks me a bore because I
don't play cards any longer, and because I am not as smartly dressed as
the other women. But you will think me a bore too if I talk to you about
my worries, and I only mention them because I want you to do me a
favour--the very greatest of favours."

Her eyes sought his once more, and she smiled inwardly at the tinge of
apprehension that she read in them.

"Why, of course--if it's anything I can manage----" He broke off, and she
guessed that his enjoyment was disturbed by the remembrance of Mrs.
Fisher's methods.

"The greatest of favours," she rejoined gently. "The fact is, Judy is
angry with me, and I want you to make my peace."

"Angry with you? Oh, come, nonsense----" his relief broke through in a
laugh. "Why, you know she's devoted to you."

"She is the best friend I have, and that is why I mind having to vex her.
But I daresay you know what she has wanted me to do. She has set her
heart--poor dear--on my marrying--marrying a great deal of money."

She paused with a slight falter of embarrassment, and Trenor, turning
abruptly, fixed on her a look of growing intelligence.

"A great deal of money? Oh, by Jove--you don't mean Gryce?  What--you do?
Oh, no, of course I won't mention it--you can trust me to keep my mouth
shut--but Gryce--good Lord, GRYCE! Did Judy really think you could bring
yourself to marry that portentous little ass? But you couldn't, eh? And
so you gave him the sack, and that's the reason why he lit out by the
first train this morning?" He leaned back, spreading himself farther
across the seat, as if dilated by the joyful sense of his own
discernment. "How on earth could Judy think you would do such a thing? I
could have told her you'd never put up with such a little milksop!"

Lily sighed more deeply. "I sometimes think," she murmured, "that men
understand a woman's motives better than other women do."

"Some men--I'm certain of it! I could have TOLD Judy," he repeated,
exulting in the implied superiority over his wife.

"I thought you would understand; that's why I wanted to speak to you,"
Miss Bart rejoined. "I can't make that kind of marriage; it's impossible.
But neither can I go on living as all the women in my set do. I am almost
entirely dependent on my aunt, and though she is very kind to me she
makes me no regular allowance, and lately I've lost money at cards, and I
don't dare tell her about it. I have paid my card debts, of course, but
there is hardly anything left for my other expenses, and if I go on with
my present life I shall be in horrible difficulties. I have a tiny income
of my own, but I'm afraid it's badly invested, for it seems to bring in
less every year, and I am so ignorant of money matters that I don't know
if my aunt's agent, who looks after it, is a good adviser." She paused a
moment, and added in a lighter tone: "I didn't mean to bore you with all
this, but I want your help in making Judy understand that I can't, at
present, go on living as one must live among you all. I am going away
tomorrow to join my aunt at Richfield, and I shall stay there for the
rest of the autumn, and dismiss my maid and learn how to mend my own
clothes."

At this picture of loveliness in distress, the pathos of which was
heightened by the light touch with which it was drawn, a murmur of
indignant sympathy broke from Trenor. Twenty-four hours earlier, if his
wife had consulted him on the subject of Miss Bart's future, he would
have said that a girl with extravagant tastes and no money had better
marry the first rich man she could get; but with the subject of
discussion at his side, turning to him for sympathy, making him feel that
he understood her better than her dearest friends, and confirming the
assurance by the appeal of her exquisite nearness, he was ready to swear
that such a marriage was a desecration, and that, as a man of honour, he
was bound to do all he could to protect her from the results of her
disinterestedness. This impulse was reinforced by the reflection that if
she had married Gryce she would have been surrounded by flattery and
approval, whereas, having refused to sacrifice herself to expediency, she
was left to bear the whole cost of her resistance. Hang it, if he could
find a way out of such difficulties for a professional sponge like Carry
Fisher, who was simply a mental habit corresponding to the physical
titillations of the cigarette or the cock-tail, he could surely do as
much for a girl who appealed to his highest sympathies, and who brought
her troubles to him with the trustfulness of a child.

Trenor and Miss Bart prolonged their drive till long after sunset; and
before it was over he had tried, with some show of success, to prove to
her that, if she would only trust him, he could make a handsome sum of
money for her without endangering the small amount she possessed. She was
too genuinely ignorant of the manipulations of the stock-market to
understand his technical explanations, or even perhaps to perceive that
certain points in them were slurred; the haziness enveloping the
transaction served as a veil for her embarrassment, and through the
general blur her hopes dilated like lamps in a fog. She understood only
that her modest investments were to be mysteriously multiplied without
risk to herself; and the assurance that this miracle would take place
within a short time, that there would be no tedious interval for suspense
and reaction, relieved her of her lingering scruples.

Again she felt the lightening of her load, and with it the release of
repressed activities. Her immediate worries conjured, it was easy to
resolve that she would never again find herself in such straits, and as
the need of economy and self-denial receded from her foreground she felt
herself ready to meet any other demand which life might make. Even the
immediate one of letting Trenor, as they drove homeward, lean a little
nearer and rest his hand reassuringly on hers, cost her only a momentary
shiver of reluctance. It was part of the game to make him feel that her
appeal had been an uncalculated impulse, provoked by the liking he
inspired; and the renewed sense of power in handling men, while it
consoled her wounded vanity, helped also to obscure the thought of the
claim at which his manner hinted. He was a coarse dull man who, under all
his show of authority, was a mere supernumerary in the costly show for
which his money paid: surely, to a clever girl, it would be easy to hold
him by his vanity, and so keep the obligation on his side.



Chapter 8

The first thousand dollar cheque which Lily received with a blotted
scrawl from Gus Trenor strengthened her self-confidence in the exact
degree to which it effaced her debts.

The transaction had justified itself by its results: she saw now how
absurd it would have been to let any primitive scruple deprive her of
this easy means of appeasing her creditors. Lily felt really virtuous as
she dispensed the sum in sops to her tradesmen, and the fact that a fresh
order accompanied each payment did not lessen her sense of
disinterestedness. How many women, in her place, would have given the
orders without making the payment!

She had found it reassuringly easy to keep Trenor in a good humour. To
listen to his stories, to receive his confidences and laugh at his jokes,
seemed for the moment all that was required of her, and the complacency
with which her hostess regarded these attentions freed them of the least
hint of ambiguity. Mrs. Trenor evidently assumed that Lily's growing
intimacy with her husband was simply an indirect way of returning her own
kindness.

"I'm so glad you and Gus have become such good friends," she said
approvingly. "It's too delightful of you to be so nice to him, and put up
with all his tiresome stories. I know what they are, because I had to
listen to them when we were engaged--I'm sure he is telling the same ones
still. And now I shan't always have to be asking Carry Fisher here to
keep him in a good-humour. She's a perfect vulture, you know; and she
hasn't the least moral sense.  She is always getting Gus to speculate for
her, and I'm sure she never pays when she loses."

Miss Bart could shudder at this state of things without the embarrassment
of a personal application. Her own position was surely quite different.
There could be no question of her not paying when she lost, since Trenor
had assured her that she was certain not to lose. In sending her the
cheque he had explained that he had made five thousand for her out of
Rosedale's "tip," and had put four thousand back in the same venture, as
there was the promise of another "big rise"; she understood therefore
that he was now speculating with her own money, and that she consequently
owed him no more than the gratitude which such a trifling service
demanded. She vaguely supposed that, to raise the first sum, he had
borrowed on her securities; but this was a point over which her curiosity
did not linger. It was concentrated, for the moment, on the probable date
of the next "big rise."

The news of this event was received by her some weeks later, on the
occasion of Jack Stepney's marriage to Miss Van Osburgh. As a cousin of
the bridegroom, Miss Bart had been asked to act as bridesmaid; but she
had declined on the plea that, since she was much taller than the other
attendant virgins, her presence might mar the symmetry of the group.  The
truth was, she had attended too many brides to the altar: when next seen
there she meant to be the chief figure in the ceremony. She knew the
pleasantries made at the expense of young girls who have been too long
before the public, and she was resolved to avoid such assumptions of
youthfulness as might lead people to think her older than she really was.

The Van Osburgh marriage was celebrated in the village church near the
paternal estate on the Hudson. It was the "simple country wedding" to
which guests are convoyed in special trains, and from which the hordes of
the uninvited have to be fended off by the intervention of the police.
While these sylvan rites were taking place, in a church packed with
fashion and festooned with orchids, the representatives of the press were
threading their way, note-book in hand, through the labyrinth of wedding
presents, and the agent of a cinematograph syndicate was setting up his
apparatus at the church door. It was the kind of scene in which Lily had
often pictured herself as taking the principal part, and on this occasion
the fact that she was once more merely a casual spectator, instead of the
mystically veiled figure occupying the centre of attention, strengthened
her resolve to assume the latter part before the year was over. The fact
that her immediate anxieties were relieved did not blind her to a
possibility of their recurrence; it merely gave her enough buoyancy to
rise once more above her doubts and feel a renewed faith in her beauty,
her power, and her general fitness to attract a brilliant destiny. It
could not be that one conscious of such aptitudes for mastery and
enjoyment was doomed to a perpetuity of failure; and her mistakes looked
easily reparable in the light of her restored self-confidence.

A special appositeness was given to these reflections by the discovery,
in a neighbouring pew, of the serious profile and neatly-trimmed beard of
Mr. Percy Gryce. There was something almost bridal in his own aspect: his
large white gardenia had a symbolic air that struck Lily as a good omen.
After all, seen in an assemblage of his kind he was not
ridiculous-looking: a friendly critic might have called his heaviness
weighty, and he was at his best in the attitude of vacant passivity which
brings out the oddities of the restless. She fancied he was the kind of
man whose sentimental associations would be stirred by the conventional
imagery of a wedding, and she pictured herself, in the seclusion of the
Van Osburgh conservatories, playing skillfully upon sensibilities thus
prepared for her touch. In fact, when she looked at the other women about
her, and recalled the image she had brought away from her own glass, it
did not seem as though any special skill would be needed to repair her
blunder and bring him once more to her feet.

The sight of Selden's dark head, in a pew almost facing her, disturbed
for a moment the balance of her complacency. The rise of her blood as
their eyes met was succeeded by a contrary motion, a wave of resistance
and withdrawal. She did not wish to see him again, not because she feared
his influence, but because his presence always had the effect of
cheapening her aspirations, of throwing her whole world out of focus.
Besides, he was a living reminder of the worst mistake in her career, and
the fact that he had been its cause did not soften her feelings toward
him. She could still imagine an ideal state of existence in which, all
else being superadded, intercourse with Selden might be the last touch of
luxury; but in the world as it was, such a privilege was likely to cost
more than it was worth.

"Lily, dear, I never saw you look so lovely! You look as if something
delightful had just happened to you!"

The young lady who thus formulated her admiration of her brilliant friend
did not, in her own person, suggest such happy possibilities.  Miss
Gertrude Farish, in fact, typified the mediocre and the ineffectual. If
there were compensating qualities in her wide frank glance and the
freshness of her smile, these were qualities which only the sympathetic
observer would perceive before noticing that her eyes were of a workaday
grey and her lips without haunting curves. Lily's own view of her wavered
between pity for her limitations and impatience at her cheerful
acceptance of them. To Miss Bart, as to her mother, acquiescence in
dinginess was evidence of stupidity; and there were moments when, in the
consciousness of her own power to look and to be so exactly what the
occasion required, she almost felt that other girls were plain and
inferior from choice. Certainly no one need have confessed such
acquiescence in her lot as was revealed in the "useful" colour of Gerty
Farish's gown and the subdued lines of her hat: it is almost as stupid to
let your clothes betray that you know you are ugly as to have them
proclaim that you think you are beautiful.

Of course, being fatally poor and dingy, it was wise of Gerty to have
taken up philanthropy and symphony concerts; but there was something
irritating in her assumption that existence yielded no higher pleasures,
and that one might get as much interest and excitement out of life in a
cramped flat as in the splendours of the Van Osburgh establishment.
Today, however, her chirping enthusiasms did not irritate Lily. They
seemed only to throw her own exceptionalness into becoming relief, and
give a soaring vastness to her scheme of life.

"Do let us go and take a peep at the presents before everyone else leaves
the dining-room!" suggested Miss Farish, linking her arm in her friend's.
It was characteristic of her to take a sentimental and unenvious interest
in all the details of a wedding: she was the kind of person who always
kept her handkerchief out during the service, and departed clutching a
box of wedding-cake.

"Isn't everything beautifully done?" she pursued, as they entered the
distant drawing-room assigned to the display of Miss Van Osburgh's bridal
spoils. "I always say no one does things better than cousin Grace! Did
you ever taste anything more delicious than that MOUSSE of lobster with
champagne sauce? I made up my mind weeks ago that I wouldn't miss this
wedding, and just fancy how delightfully it all came about. When Lawrence
Selden heard I was coming, he insisted on fetching me himself and driving
me to the station, and when we go back this evening I am to dine with him
at Sherry's. I really feel as excited as if I were getting married
myself!"

Lily smiled: she knew that Selden had always been kind to his dull
cousin, and she had sometimes wondered why he wasted so much time in such
an unremunerative manner; but now the thought gave her a vague pleasure.

"Do you see him often?" she asked.

"Yes; he is very good about dropping in on Sundays. And now and then we
do a play together; but lately I haven't seen much of him. He doesn't
look well, and he seems nervous and unsettled.  The dear fellow! I do
wish he would marry some nice girl. I told him so today, but he said he
didn't care for the really nice ones, and the other kind didn't care for
him--but that was just his joke, of course. He could never marry a girl
who WASN'T nice.  Oh, my dear, did you ever see such pearls?"

They had paused before the table on which the bride's jewels were
displayed, and Lily's heart gave an envious throb as she caught the
refraction of light from their surfaces--the milky gleam of perfectly
matched pearls, the flash of rubies relieved against contrasting velvet,
the intense blue rays of sapphires kindled into light by surrounding
diamonds: all these precious tints enhanced and deepened by the varied
art of their setting. The glow of the stones warmed Lily's veins like
wine. More completely than any other expression of wealth they symbolized
the life she longed to lead, the life of fastidious aloofness and
refinement in which every detail should have the finish of a jewel, and
the whole form a harmonious setting to her own jewel-like rareness.

"Oh, Lily, do look at this diamond pendant--it's as big as a
dinner-plate! Who can have given it?" Miss Farish bent short-sightedly
over the accompanying card. "MR. SIMON ROSEDALE.  What, that horrid man?
Oh, yes--I remember he's a friend of Jack's, and I suppose cousin Grace
had to ask him here today; but she must rather hate having to let Gwen
accept such a present from him."

Lily smiled. She doubted Mrs. Van Osburgh's reluctance, but was aware of
Miss Farish's habit of ascribing her own delicacies of feeling to the
persons least likely to be encumbered by them.

"Well, if Gwen doesn't care to be seen wearing it she can always exchange
it for something else," she remarked.

"Ah, here is something so much prettier," Miss Farish continued.  "Do
look at this exquisite white sapphire. I'm sure the person who chose it
must have taken particular pains. What is the name?  Percy Gryce? Ah,
then I'm not surprised!" She smiled significantly as she replaced the
card. "Of course you've heard that he's perfectly devoted to Evie Van
Osburgh? Cousin Grace is so pleased about it--it's quite a romance! He
met her first at the George Dorsets', only about six weeks ago, and it's
just the nicest possible marriage for dear Evie. Oh, I don't mean the
money--of course she has plenty of her own--but she's such a quiet
stay-at-home kind of girl, and it seems he has just the same tastes; so
they are exactly suited to each other."

Lily stood staring vacantly at the white sapphire on its velvet bed.
Evie Van Osburgh and Percy Gryce? The names rang derisively through her
brain. EVIE VAN OSBURGH? The youngest, dumpiest, dullest of the four dull
and dumpy daughters whom Mrs. Van Osburgh, with unsurpassed astuteness,
had "placed" one by one in enviable niches of existence!  Ah, lucky girls
who grow up in the shelter of a mother's love--a mother who knows how to
contrive opportunities without conceding favours, how to take advantage
of propinquity without allowing appetite to be dulled by habit! The
cleverest girl may miscalculate where her own interests are concerned,
may yield too much at one moment and withdraw too far at the next: it
takes a mother's unerring vigilance and foresight to land her daughters
safely in the arms of wealth and suitability.

Lily's passing light-heartedness sank beneath a renewed sense of failure.
Life was too stupid, too blundering! Why should Percy Gryce's millions be
joined to another great fortune, why should this clumsy girl be put in
possession of powers she would never know how to use?

She was roused from these speculations by a familiar touch on her arm,
and turning saw Gus Trenor beside her. She felt a thrill of vexation:
what right had he to touch her? Luckily Gerty Farish had wandered off to
the next table, and they were alone.

Trenor, looking stouter than ever in his tight frock-coat, and
unbecomingly flushed by the bridal libations, gazed at her with
undisguised approval.

"By Jove, Lily, you do look a stunner!" He had slipped insensibly into
the use of her Christian name, and she had never found the right moment
to correct him. Besides, in her set all the men and women called each
other by their Christian names; it was only on Trenor's lips that the
familiar address had an unpleasant significance.

"Well," he continued, still jovially impervious to her annoyance, "have
you made up your mind which of these little trinkets you mean to
duplicate at Tiffany's tomorrow? I've got a cheque for you in my pocket
that will go a long way in that line!"

Lily gave him a startled look: his voice was louder than usual, and the
room was beginning to fill with people. But as her glance assured her
that they were still beyond ear-shot a sense of pleasure replaced her
apprehension.

"Another dividend?" she asked, smiling and drawing near him in the desire
not to be overheard.

"Well, not exactly: I sold out on the rise and I've pulled off four thou'
for you. Not so bad for a beginner, eh? I suppose you'll begin to think
you're a pretty knowing speculator. And perhaps you won't think poor old
Gus such an awful ass as some people do."

"I think you the kindest of friends; but I can't thank you properly now."

She let her eyes shine into his with a look that made up for the
hand-clasp he would have claimed if they had been alone--and how glad she
was that they were not! The news filled her with the glow produced by a
sudden cessation of physical pain. The world was not so stupid and
blundering after all: now and then a stroke of luck came to the
unluckiest. At the thought her spirits began to rise: it was
characteristic of her that one trifling piece of good fortune should give
wings to all her hopes. Instantly came the reflection that Percy Gryce
was not irretrievably lost; and she smiled to think of the excitement of
recapturing him from Evie Van Osburgh. What chance could such a simpleton
have against her if she chose to exert herself? She glanced about, hoping
to catch a glimpse of Gryce; but her eyes lit instead on the glossy
countenance of Mr. Rosedale, who was slipping through the crowd with an
air half obsequious, half obtrusive, as though, the moment his presence
was recognized, it would swell to the dimensions of the room.

Not wishing to be the means of effecting this enlargement, Lily quickly
transferred her glance to Trenor, to whom the expression of her gratitude
seemed not to have brought the complete gratification she had meant it to
give.

"Hang thanking me--I don't want to be thanked, but I SHOULD like the
chance to say two words to you now and then," he grumbled. "I thought you
were going to spend the whole autumn with us, and I've hardly laid eyes
on you for the last month. Why can't you come back to Bellomont this
evening? We're all alone, and Judy is as cross as two sticks. Do come and
cheer a fellow up. If you say yes I'll run you over in the motor, and you
can telephone your maid to bring your traps from town by the next train."

Lily shook her head with a charming semblance of regret. "I wish I
could--but it's quite impossible. My aunt has come back to town, and I
must be with her for the next few days."

"Well, I've seen a good deal less of you since we've got to be such pals
than I used to when you were Judy's friend," he continued with
unconscious penetration.

"When I was Judy's friend? Am I not her friend still? Really, you say the
most absurd things! If I were always at Bellomont you would tire of me
much sooner than Judy--but come and see me at my aunt's the next
afternoon you are in town; then we can have a nice quiet talk, and you
can tell me how I had better invest my fortune."

It was true that, during the last three or four weeks, she had absented
herself from Bellomont on the pretext of having other visits to pay; but
she now began to feel that the reckoning she had thus contrived to evade
had rolled up interest in the interval.

The prospect of the nice quiet talk did not appear as all-sufficing to
Trenor as she had hoped, and his brows continued to lower as he said:
"Oh, I don't know that I can promise you a fresh tip every day. But
there's one thing you might do for me; and that is, just to be a little
civil to Rosedale. Judy has promised to ask him to dine when we get to
town, but I can't induce her to have him at Bellomont, and if you would
let me bring him up now it would make a lot of difference. I don't
believe two women have spoken to him this afternoon, and I can tell you
he's a chap it pays to be decent to."

Miss Bart made an impatient movement, but suppressed the words which
seemed about to accompany it. After all, this was an unexpectedly easy
way of acquitting her debt; and had she not reasons of her own for
wishing to be civil to Mr. Rosedale?

"Oh, bring him by all means," she said smiling; "perhaps I can get a tip
out of him on my own account."

Trenor paused abruptly, and his eyes fixed themselves on hers with a look
which made her change colour.

"I say, you know--you'll please remember he's a blooming bounder," he
said; and with a slight laugh she turned toward the open window near
which they had been standing.

The throng in the room had increased, and she felt a desire for space and
fresh air. Both of these she found on the terrace, where only a few men
were lingering over cigarettes and liqueur, while scattered couples
strolled across the lawn to the autumn-tinted borders of the
flower-garden.

As she emerged, a man moved toward her from the knot of smokers, and she
found herself face to face with Selden. The stir of the pulses which his
nearness always caused was increased by a slight sense of constraint.
They had not met since their Sunday afternoon walk at Bellomont, and that
episode was still so vivid to her that she could hardly believe him to be
less conscious of it. But his greeting expressed no more than the
satisfaction which every pretty woman expects to see reflected in
masculine eyes; and the discovery, if distasteful to her vanity, was
reassuring to her nerves. Between the relief of her escape from Trenor,
and the vague apprehension of her meeting with Rosedale, it was pleasant
to rest a moment on the sense of complete understanding which Lawrence
Selden's manner always conveyed.

"This is luck," he said smiling. "I was wondering if I should be able to
have a word with you before the special snatches us away.  I came with
Gerty Farish, and promised not to let her miss the train, but I am sure
she is still extracting sentimental solace from the wedding presents. She
appears to regard their number and value as evidence of the disinterested
affection of the contracting parties."

There was not the least trace of embarrassment in his voice, and as he
spoke, leaning slightly against the jamb of the window, and letting his
eyes rest on her in the frank enjoyment of her grace, she felt with a
faint chill of regret that he had gone back without an effort to the
footing on which they had stood before their last talk together. Her
vanity was stung by the sight of his unscathed smile. She longed to be to
him something more than a piece of sentient prettiness, a passing
diversion to his eye and brain; and the longing betrayed itself in her
reply.

"Ah," she said, "I envy Gerty that power she has of dressing up with
romance all our ugly and prosaic arrangements! I have never recovered my
self-respect since you showed me how poor and unimportant my ambitions
were."

The words were hardly spoken when she realized their infelicity.  It
seemed to be her fate to appear at her worst to Selden.

"I thought, on the contrary," he returned lightly, "that I had been the
means of proving they were more important to you than anything else."

It was as if the eager current of her being had been checked by a sudden
obstacle which drove it back upon itself. She looked at him helplessly,
like a hurt or frightened child: this real self of hers, which he had the
faculty of drawing out of the depths, was so little accustomed to go
alone!

The appeal of her helplessness touched in him, as it always did, a latent
chord of inclination. It would have meant nothing to him to discover that
his nearness made her more brilliant, but this glimpse of a twilight mood
to which he alone had the clue seemed once more to set him in a world
apart with her.

"At least you can't think worse things of me than you say!" she exclaimed
with a trembling laugh; but before he could answer, the flow of
comprehension between them was abruptly stayed by the reappearance of Gus
Trenor, who advanced with Mr. Rosedale in his wake.

"Hang it, Lily, I thought you'd given me the slip: Rosedale and I have
been hunting all over for you!"

His voice had a note of conjugal familiarity: Miss Bart fancied she
detected in Rosedale's eye a twinkling perception of the fact, and the
idea turned her dislike of him to repugnance.

She returned his profound bow with a slight nod, made more disdainful by
the sense of Selden's surprise that she should number Rosedale among her
acquaintances. Trenor had turned away, and his companion continued to
stand before Miss Bart, alert and expectant, his lips parted in a smile
at whatever she might be about to say, and his very back conscious of the
privilege of being seen with her.

It was the moment for tact; for the quick bridging over of gaps; but
Selden still leaned against the window, a detached observer of the scene,
and under the spell of his observation Lily felt herself powerless to
exert her usual arts. The dread of Selden's suspecting that there was any
need for her to propitiate such a man as Rosedale checked the trivial
phrases of politeness.  Rosedale still stood before her in an expectant
attitude, and she continued to face him in silence, her glance just level
with his polished baldness. The look put the finishing touch to what her
silence implied.

He reddened slowly, shifting from one foot to the other, fingered the
plump black pearl in his tie, and gave a nervous twist to his moustache;
then, running his eye over her, he drew back, and said, with a
side-glance at Selden: "Upon my soul, I never saw a more ripping get-up.
Is that the last creation of the dress-maker you go to see at the
Benedick? If so, I wonder all the other women don't go to her too!"

The words were projected sharply against Lily's silence, and she saw in a
flash that her own act had given them their emphasis. In ordinary talk
they might have passed unheeded; but following on her prolonged pause
they acquired a special meaning. She felt, without looking, that Selden
had immediately seized it, and would inevitably connect the allusion with
her visit to himself. The consciousness increased her irritation against
Rosedale, but also her feeling that now, if ever, was the moment to
propitiate him, hateful as it was to do so in Selden's presence.

"How do you know the other women don't go to my dress-maker?" she
returned. "You see I'm not afraid to give her address to my friends!"

Her glance and accent so plainly included Rosedale in this privileged
circle that his small eyes puckered with gratification, and a knowing
smile drew up his moustache.

"By Jove, you needn't be!" he declared. "You could give 'em the whole
outfit and win at a canter!"

"Ah, that's nice of you; and it would be nicer still if you would carry
me off to a quiet corner, and get me a glass of lemonade or some innocent
drink before we all have to rush for the train."

She turned away as she spoke, letting him strut at her side through the
gathering groups on the terrace, while every nerve in her throbbed with
the consciousness of what Selden must have thought of the scene.

But under her angry sense of the perverseness of things, and the light
surface of her talk with Rosedale, a third idea persisted: she did not
mean to leave without an attempt to discover the truth about Percy Gryce.
Chance, or perhaps his own resolve, had kept them apart since his hasty
withdrawal from Bellomont; but Miss Bart was an expert in making the most
of the unexpected, and the distasteful incidents of the last few
minutes--the revelation to Selden of precisely that part of her life
which she most wished him to ignore--increased her longing for shelter,
for escape from such humiliating contingencies. Any definite situation
would be more tolerable than this buffeting of chances, which kept her in
an attitude of uneasy alertness toward every possibility of life.

Indoors there was a general sense of dispersal in the air, as of an
audience gathering itself up for departure after the principal actors had
left the stage; but among the remaining groups, Lily could discover
neither Gryce nor the youngest Miss Van Osburgh.  That both should be
missing struck her with foreboding; and she charmed Mr. Rosedale by
proposing that they should make their way to the conservatories at the
farther end of the house. There were just enough people left in the long
suite of rooms to make their progress conspicuous, and Lily was aware of
being followed by looks of amusement and interrogation, which glanced off
as harmlessly from her indifference as from her companion's
self-satisfaction. She cared very little at that moment about being seen
with Rosedale: all her thoughts were centred on the object of her search.
The latter, however, was not discoverable in the conservatories, and
Lily, oppressed by a sudden conviction of failure, was casting about for
a way to rid herself of her now superfluous companion, when they came
upon Mrs. Van Osburgh, flushed and exhausted, but beaming with the
consciousness of duty performed.

She glanced at them a moment with the benign but vacant eye of the tired
hostess, to whom her guests have become mere whirling spots in a
kaleidoscope of fatigue; then her attention became suddenly fixed, and
she seized on Miss Bart with a confidential gesture. "My dear Lily, I
haven't had time for a word with you, and now I suppose you are just off.
Have you seen Evie? She's been looking everywhere for you: she wanted to
tell you her little secret; but I daresay you have guessed it already.
The engagement is not to be announced till next week--but you are such a
friend of Mr. Gryce's that they both wished you to be the first to know
of their happiness."



Chapter 9

In Mrs. Peniston's youth, fashion had returned to town in October;
therefore on the tenth day of the month the blinds of her Fifth Avenue
residence were drawn up, and the eyes of the Dying Gladiator in bronze
who occupied the drawing-room window resumed their survey of that
deserted thoroughfare.

The first two weeks after her return represented to Mrs. Peniston the
domestic equivalent of a religious retreat. She "went through" the linen
and blankets in the precise spirit of the penitent exploring the inner
folds of conscience; she sought for moths as the stricken soul seeks for
lurking infirmities. The topmost shelf of every closet was made to yield
up its secret, cellar and coal-bin were probed to their darkest depths
and, as a final stage in the lustral rites, the entire house was swathed
in penitential white and deluged with expiatory soapsuds.

It was on this phase of the proceedings that Miss Bart entered on the
afternoon of her return from the Van Osburgh wedding. The journey back to
town had not been calculated to soothe her nerves. Though Evie Van
Osburgh's engagement was still officially a secret, it was one of which
the innumerable intimate friends of the family were already possessed;
and the trainful of returning guests buzzed with allusions and
anticipations. Lily was acutely aware of her own part in this drama of
innuendo: she knew the exact quality of the amusement the situation
evoked. The crude forms in which her friends took their pleasure included
a loud enjoyment of such complications: the zest of surprising destiny in
the act of playing a practical joke. Lily knew well enough how to bear
herself in difficult situations. She had, to a shade, the exact manner
between victory and defeat: every insinuation was shed without an effort
by the bright indifference of her manner.  But she was beginning to feel
the strain of the attitude; the reaction was more rapid, and she lapsed
to a deeper self-disgust.


As was always the case with her, this moral repulsion found a physical
outlet in a quickened distaste for her surroundings.  She revolted from
the complacent ugliness of Mrs. Peniston's black walnut, from the
slippery gloss of the vestibule tiles, and the mingled odour of sapolio
and furniture-polish that met her at the door.

The stairs were still carpetless, and on the way up to her room she was
arrested on the landing by an encroaching tide of soapsuds. Gathering up
her skirts, she drew aside with an impatient gesture; and as she did so
she had the odd sensation of having already found herself in the same
situation but in different surroundings. It seemed to her that she was
again descending the staircase from Selden's rooms; and looking down to
remonstrate with the dispenser of the soapy flood, she found herself met
by a lifted stare which had once before confronted her under similar
circumstances. It was the char-woman of the Benedick who, resting on
crimson elbows, examined her with the same unflinching curiosity, the
same apparent reluctance to let her pass. On this occasion, however, Miss
Bart was on her own ground.

"Don't you see that I wish to go by? Please move your pail," she said
sharply.

The woman at first seemed not to hear; then, without a word of excuse,
she pushed back her pail and dragged a wet floor-cloth across the
landing, keeping her eyes fixed on Lily while the latter swept by. It was
insufferable that Mrs. Peniston should have such creatures about the
house; and Lily entered her room resolved that the woman should be
dismissed that evening.

Mrs. Peniston, however, was at the moment inaccessible to remonstrance:
since early morning she had been shut up with her maid, going over her
furs, a process which formed the culminating episode in the drama of
household renovation. In the evening also Lily found herself alone, for
her aunt, who rarely dined out, had responded to the summons of a Van
Alstyne cousin who was passing through town. The house, in its state of
unnatural immaculateness and order, was as dreary as a tomb, and as Lily,
turning from her brief repast between shrouded sideboards, wandered into
the newly-uncovered glare of the drawing-room she felt as though she were
buried alive in the stifling limits of Mrs. Peniston's existence.

She usually contrived to avoid being at home during the season of
domestic renewal. On the present occasion, however, a variety of reasons
had combined to bring her to town; and foremost among them was the fact
that she had fewer invitations than usual for the autumn. She had so long
been accustomed to pass from one country-house to another, till the close
of the holidays brought her friends to town, that the unfilled gaps of
time confronting her produced a sharp sense of waning popularity. It was
as she had said to Selden--people were tired of her.  They would welcome
her in a new character, but as Miss Bart they knew her by heart.  She
knew herself by heart too, and was sick of the old story.  There were
moments when she longed blindly for anything different, anything strange,
remote and untried; but the utmost reach of her imagination did not go
beyond picturing her usual life in a new setting. She could not figure
herself as anywhere but in a drawing-room, diffusing elegance as a flower
sheds perfume.

Meanwhile, as October advanced she had to face the alternative of
returning to the Trenors or joining her aunt in town. Even the desolating
dulness of New York in October, and the soapy discomforts of Mrs.
Peniston's interior, seemed preferable to what might await her at
Bellomont; and with an air of heroic devotion she announced her intention
of remaining with her aunt till the holidays.

Sacrifices of this nature are sometimes received with feelings as mixed
as those which actuate them; and Mrs. Peniston remarked to her
confidential maid that, if any of the family were to be with her at such
a crisis (though for forty years she had been thought competent to see to
the hanging of her own curtains), she would certainly have preferred Miss
Grace to Miss Lily. Grace Stepney was an obscure cousin, of adaptable
manners and vicarious interests, who "ran in" to sit with Mrs. Peniston
when Lily dined out too continuously; who played bezique, picked up
dropped stitches, read out the deaths from the Times, and sincerely
admired the purple satin drawing-room curtains, the Dying Gladiator in
the window, and the seven-by-five painting of Niagara which represented
the one artistic excess of Mr. Peniston's temperate career.

Mrs. Peniston, under ordinary circumstances, was as much bored by her
excellent cousin as the recipient of such services usually is by the
person who performs them. She greatly preferred the brilliant and
unreliable Lily, who did not know one end of a crochet-needle from the
other, and had frequently wounded her susceptibilities by suggesting that
the drawing-room should be "done over." But when it came to hunting for
missing napkins, or helping to decide whether the backstairs needed
re-carpeting, Grace's judgment was certainly sounder than Lily's: not to
mention the fact that the latter resented the smell of beeswax and brown
soap, and behaved as though she thought a house ought to keep clean of
itself, without extraneous assistance.

Seated under the cheerless blaze of the drawing-room chandelier--Mrs.
Peniston never lit the lamps unless there was "company"--Lily seemed to
watch her own figure retreating down vistas of neutral-tinted dulness to
a middle age like Grace Stepney's. When she ceased to amuse Judy Trenor
and her friends she would have to fall back on amusing Mrs. Peniston;
whichever way she looked she saw only a future of servitude to the whims
of others, never the possibility of asserting her own eager individuality.

A ring at the door-bell, sounding emphatically through the empty house,
roused her suddenly to the extent of her boredom. It was as though all
the weariness of the past months had culminated in the vacuity of that
interminable evening. If only the ring meant a summons from the outer
world--a token that she was still remembered and wanted!

After some delay a parlour-maid presented herself with the announcement
that there was a person outside who was asking to see Miss Bart; and on
Lily's pressing for a more specific description, she added:

"It's Mrs. Haffen, Miss; she won't say what she wants."

Lily, to whom the name conveyed nothing, opened the door upon a woman in
a battered bonnet, who stood firmly planted under the hall-light.  The
glare of the unshaded gas shone familiarly on her pock-marked face and
the reddish baldness visible through thin strands of straw-coloured hair.
Lily looked at the char-woman in surprise.

"Do you wish to see me?" she asked.

"I should like to say a word to you, Miss." The tone was neither
aggressive nor conciliatory: it revealed nothing of the speaker's errand.
Nevertheless, some precautionary instinct warned Lily to withdraw beyond
ear-shot of the hovering parlour-maid.

She signed to Mrs. Haffen to follow her into the drawing-room, and closed
the door when they had entered.

"What is it that you wish?" she enquired.

The char-woman, after the manner of her kind, stood with her arms folded
in her shawl. Unwinding the latter, she produced a small parcel wrapped
in dirty newspaper.

"I have something here that you might like to see, Miss Bart." She spoke
the name with an unpleasant emphasis, as though her knowing it made a
part of her reason for being there. To Lily the intonation sounded like a
threat.

"You have found something belonging to me?" she asked, extending her hand.

Mrs. Haffen drew back. "Well, if it comes to that, I guess it's mine as
much as anybody's," she returned.

Lily looked at her perplexedly. She was sure, now, that her visitor's
manner conveyed a threat; but, expert as she was in certain directions,
there was nothing in her experience to prepare her for the exact
significance of the present scene. She felt, however, that it must be
ended as promptly as possible.

"I don't understand; if this parcel is not mine, why have you asked for
me?"

The woman was unabashed by the question. She was evidently prepared to
answer it, but like all her class she had to go a long way back to make a
beginning, and it was only after a pause that she replied: "My husband
was janitor to the Benedick till the first of the month; since then he
can't get nothing to do."

Lily remained silent and she continued: "It wasn't no fault of our own,
neither: the agent had another man he wanted the place for, and we was
put out, bag and baggage, just to suit his fancy.  I had a long sickness
last winter, and an operation that ate up all we'd put by; and it's hard
for me and the children, Haffen being so long out of a job."

After all, then, she had come only to ask Miss Bart to find a place for
her husband; or, more probably, to seek the young lady's intervention
with Mrs. Peniston. Lily had such an air of always getting what she
wanted that she was used to being appealed to as an intermediary, and,
relieved of her vague apprehension, she took refuge in the conventional
formula.

"I am sorry you have been in trouble," she said.

"Oh, that we have, Miss, and it's on'y just beginning. If on'y we'd 'a
got another situation--but the agent, he's dead against us. It ain't no
fault of ours, neither, but----"

At this point Lily's impatience overcame her. "If you have anything to
say to me----" she interposed.

The woman's resentment of the rebuff seemed to spur her lagging ideas.

"Yes, Miss; I'm coming to that," she said. She paused again, with her
eyes on Lily, and then continued, in a tone of diffuse narrative: "When
we was at the Benedick I had charge of some of the gentlemen's rooms;
leastways, I swep' 'em out on Saturdays.  Some of the gentlemen got the
greatest sight of letters: I never saw the like of it. Their waste-paper
baskets 'd be fairly brimming, and papers falling over on the floor.
Maybe havin' so many is how they get so careless. Some of 'em is worse
than others. Mr. Selden, Mr. Lawrence Selden, he was always one of the
carefullest: burnt his letters in winter, and tore 'em in little bits in
summer. But sometimes he'd have so many he'd just bunch 'em together, the
way the others did, and tear the lot through once--like this."

While she spoke she had loosened the string from the parcel in her hand,
and now she drew forth a letter which she laid on the table between Miss
Bart and herself. As she had said, the letter was torn in two; but with a
rapid gesture she laid the torn edges together and smoothed out the page.

A wave of indignation swept over Lily. She felt herself in the presence
of something vile, as yet but dimly conjectured--the kind of vileness of
which people whispered, but which she had never thought of as touching
her own life. She drew back with a motion of disgust, but her withdrawal
was checked by a sudden discovery: under the glare of Mrs. Peniston's
chandelier she had recognized the hand-writing of the letter. It was a
large disjointed hand, with a flourish of masculinity which but slightly
disguised its rambling weakness, and the words, scrawled in heavy ink on
pale-tinted notepaper, smote on Lily's ear as though she had heard them
spoken.

At first she did not grasp the full import of the situation. She
understood only that before her lay a letter written by Bertha Dorset,
and addressed, presumably, to Lawrence Selden. There was no date, but the
blackness of the ink proved the writing to be comparatively recent.  The
packet in Mrs. Haffen's hand doubtless contained more letters of the same
kind--a dozen, Lily conjectured from its thickness. The letter before her
was short, but its few words, which had leapt into her brain before she
was conscious of reading them, told a long history--a history over which,
for the last four years, the friends of the writer had smiled and
shrugged, viewing it merely as one among the countless "good situations"
of the mundane comedy. Now the other side presented itself to Lily, the
volcanic nether side of the surface over which conjecture and innuendo
glide so lightly till the first fissure turns their whisper to a shriek.
Lily knew that there is nothing society resents so much as having given
its protection to those who have not known how to profit by it: it is for
having betrayed its connivance that the body social punishes the offender
who is found out. And in this case there was no doubt of the issue. The
code of Lily's world decreed that a woman's husband should be the only
judge of her conduct: she was technically above suspicion while she had
the shelter of his approval, or even of his indifference. But with a man
of George Dorset's temper there could be no thought of condonation--the
possessor of his wife's letters could overthrow with a touch the whole
structure of her existence. And into what hands Bertha Dorset's secret
had been delivered! For a moment the irony of the coincidence tinged
Lily's disgust with a confused sense of triumph. But the disgust
prevailed--all her instinctive resistances, of taste, of training, of
blind inherited scruples, rose against the other feeling. Her strongest
sense was one of personal contamination.

She moved away, as though to put as much distance as possible between
herself and her visitor. "I know nothing of these letters," she said; "I
have no idea why you have brought them here."

Mrs. Haffen faced her steadily. "I'll tell you why, Miss.  I brought 'em
to you to sell, because I ain't got no other way of raising money, and if
we don't pay our rent by tomorrow night we'll be put out. I never done
anythin' of the kind before, and if you'd speak to Mr. Selden or to Mr.
Rosedale about getting Haffen taken on again at the Benedick--I seen you
talking to Mr. Rosedale on the steps that day you come out of Mr.
Selden's rooms----"

The blood rushed to Lily's forehead. She understood now--Mrs. Haffen
supposed her to be the writer of the letters. In the first leap of her
anger she was about to ring and order the woman out; but an obscure
impulse restrained her. The mention of Selden's name had started a new
train of thought. Bertha Dorset's letters were nothing to her--they might
go where the current of chance carried them! But Selden was inextricably
involved in their fate.  Men do not, at worst, suffer much from such
exposure; and in this instance the flash of divination which had carried
the meaning of the letters to Lily's brain had revealed also that they
were appeals--repeated and therefore probably unanswered--for the renewal
of a tie which time had evidently relaxed.  Nevertheless, the fact that
the correspondence had been allowed to fall into strange hands would
convict Selden of negligence in a matter where the world holds it least
pardonable; and there were graver risks to consider where a man of
Dorset's ticklish balance was concerned.

If she weighed all these things it was unconsciously: she was aware only
of feeling that Selden would wish the letters rescued, and that therefore
she must obtain possession of them. Beyond that her mind did not travel.
She had, indeed, a quick vision of returning the packet to Bertha Dorset,
and of the opportunities the restitution offered; but this thought lit up
abysses from which she shrank back ashamed.

Meanwhile Mrs. Haffen, prompt to perceive her hesitation, had already
opened the packet and ranged its contents on the table.  All the letters
had been pieced together with strips of thin paper. Some were in small
fragments, the others merely torn in half. Though there were not many,
thus spread out they nearly covered the table. Lily's glance fell on a
word here and there--then she said in a low voice: "What do you wish me
to pay you?"

Mrs. Haffen's face reddened with satisfaction. It was clear that the
young lady was badly frightened, and Mrs. Haffen was the woman to make
the most of such fears. Anticipating an easier victory than she had
foreseen, she named an exorbitant sum.

But Miss Bart showed herself a less ready prey than might have been
expected from her imprudent opening. She refused to pay the price named,
and after a moment's hesitation, met it by a counter-offer of half the
amount.

Mrs. Haffen immediately stiffened. Her hand travelled toward the
outspread letters, and folding them slowly, she made as though to restore
them to their wrapping.

"I guess they're worth more to you than to me, Miss, but the poor has got
to live as well as the rich," she observed sententiously.


Lily was throbbing with fear, but the insinuation fortified her
resistance.

"You are mistaken," she said indifferently. "I have offered all I am
willing to give for the letters; but there may be other ways of getting
them."

Mrs. Haffen raised a suspicious glance: she was too experienced not to
know that the traffic she was engaged in had perils as great as its
rewards, and she had a vision of the elaborate machinery of revenge which
a word of this commanding young lady's might set in motion.

She applied the corner of her shawl to her eyes, and murmured through it
that no good came of bearing too hard on the poor, but that for her part
she had never been mixed up in such a business before, and that on her
honour as a Christian all she and Haffen had thought of was that the
letters mustn't go any farther.

Lily stood motionless, keeping between herself and the char-woman the
greatest distance compatible with the need of speaking in low tones.  The
idea of bargaining for the letters was intolerable to her, but she knew
that, if she appeared to weaken, Mrs. Haffen would at once increase her
original demand.

She could never afterward recall how long the duel lasted, or what was
the decisive stroke which finally, after a lapse of time recorded in
minutes by the clock, in hours by the precipitate beat of her pulses, put
her in possession of the letters; she knew only that the door had finally
closed, and that she stood alone with the packet in her hand.

She had no idea of reading the letters; even to unfold Mrs. Haffen's
dirty newspaper would have seemed degrading. But what did she intend to
do with its contents? The recipient of the letters had meant to destroy
them, and it was her duty to carry out his intention. She had no right to
keep them--to do so was to lessen whatever merit lay in having secured
their possession. But how destroy them so effectually that there should
be no second risk of their falling in such hands? Mrs. Peniston's icy
drawing-room grate shone with a forbidding lustre: the fire, like the
lamps, was never lit except when there was company.

Miss Bart was turning to carry the letters upstairs when she heard the
opening of the outer door, and her aunt entered the drawing-room. Mrs.
Peniston was a small plump woman, with a colourless skin lined with
trivial wrinkles. Her grey hair was arranged with precision, and her
clothes looked excessively new and yet slightly old-fashioned. They were
always black and tightly fitting, with an expensive glitter: she was the
kind of woman who wore jet at breakfast. Lily had never seen her when she
was not cuirassed in shining black, with small tight boots, and an air of
being packed and ready to start; yet she never started.

She looked about the drawing-room with an expression of minute scrutiny.
"I saw a streak of light under one of the blinds as I drove up: it's
extraordinary that I can never teach that woman to draw them down evenly."

Having corrected the irregularity, she seated herself on one of the
glossy purple arm-chairs; Mrs. Peniston always sat on a chair, never in
it.

Then she turned her glance to Miss Bart. "My dear, you look tired; I
suppose it's the excitement of the wedding. Cornelia Van Alstyne was full
of it: Molly was there, and Gerty Farish ran in for a minute to tell us
about it. I think it was odd, their serving melons before the CONSOMME: a
wedding breakfast should always begin with CONSOMME. Molly didn't care
for the bridesmaids' dresses. She had it straight from Julia Melson that
they cost three hundred dollars apiece at Celeste's, but she says they
didn't look it. I'm glad you decided not to be a bridesmaid; that shade
of salmon-pink wouldn't have suited you." Mrs. Peniston delighted in
discussing the minutest details of festivities in which she had not taken
part. Nothing would have induced her to undergo the exertion and fatigue
of attending the Van Osburgh wedding, but so great was her interest in
the event that, having heard two versions of it, she now prepared to
extract a third from her niece. Lily, however, had been deplorably
careless in noting the particulars of the entertainment. She had failed
to observe the colour of Mrs. Van Osburgh's gown, and could not even say
whether the old Van Osburgh Sevres had been used at the bride's table:
Mrs. Peniston, in short, found that she was of more service as a listener
than as a narrator.

"Really, Lily, I don't see why you took the trouble to go to the wedding,
if you don't remember what happened or whom you saw there.  When I was a
girl I used to keep the MENU of every dinner I went to, and write the
names of the people on the back; and I never threw away my cotillion
favours till after your uncle's death, when it seemed unsuitable to have
so many coloured things about the house. I had a whole closet-full, I
remember; and I can tell to this day what balls I got them at. Molly Van
Alstyne reminds me of what I was at that age; it's wonderful how she
notices. She was able to tell her mother exactly how the wedding-dress
was cut, and we knew at once, from the fold in the back, that it must
have come from Paquin."

Mrs. Peniston rose abruptly, and, advancing to the ormolu clock
surmounted by a helmeted Minerva, which throned on the chimney-piece
between two malachite vases, passed her lace handkerchief between the
helmet and its visor.

"I knew it--the parlour-maid never dusts there!" she exclaimed,
triumphantly displaying a minute spot on the handkerchief; then,
reseating herself, she went on: "Molly thought Mrs. Dorset the
best-dressed woman at the wedding. I've no doubt her dress DID cost more
than any one else's, but I can't quite like the idea--a combination of
sable and POINT DE MILAN. It seems she goes to a new man in Paris, who
won't take an order till his client has spent a day with him at his villa
at Neuilly. He says he must study his subject's home life--a most
peculiar arrangement, I should say! But Mrs. Dorset told Molly about it
herself: she said the villa was full of the most exquisite things and she
was really sorry to leave. Molly said she never saw her looking better;
she was in tremendous spirits, and said she had made a match between Evie
Van Osburgh and Percy Gryce. She really seems to have a very good
influence on young men. I hear she is interesting herself now in that
silly Silverton boy, who has had his head turned by Carry Fisher, and has
been gambling so dreadfully. Well, as I was saying, Evie is really
engaged: Mrs. Dorset had her to stay with Percy Gryce, and managed it
all, and Grace Van Osburgh is in the seventh heaven--she had almost
despaired of marrying Evie."

Mrs. Peniston again paused, but this time her scrutiny addressed itself,
not to the furniture, but to her niece.

"Cornelia Van Alstyne was so surprised: she had heard that you were to
marry young Gryce. She saw the Wetheralls just after they had stopped
with you at Bellomont, and Alice Wetherall was quite sure there was an
engagement. She said that when Mr. Gryce left unexpectedly one morning,
they all thought he had rushed to town for the ring."

Lily rose and moved toward the door.

"I believe I AM tired: I think I will go to bed," she said; and Mrs.
Peniston, suddenly distracted by the discovery that the easel sustaining
the late Mr. Peniston's crayon-portrait was not exactly in line with the
sofa in front of it, presented an absent-minded brow to her kiss.

In her own room Lily turned up the gas-jet and glanced toward the grate.
It was as brilliantly polished as the one below, but here at least she
could burn a few papers with less risk of incurring her aunt's
disapproval. She made no immediate motion to do so, however, but dropping
into a chair looked wearily about her. Her room was large and
comfortably-furnished--it was the envy and admiration of poor Grace
Stepney, who boarded; but, contrasted with the light tints and luxurious
appointments of the guest-rooms where so many weeks of Lily's existence
were spent, it seemed as dreary as a prison. The monumental wardrobe and
bedstead of black walnut had migrated from Mr. Peniston's bedroom, and
the magenta "flock" wall-paper, of a pattern dear to the early 'sixties,
was hung with large steel engravings of an anecdotic character. Lily had
tried to mitigate this charmless background by a few frivolous touches,
in the shape of a lace-decked toilet table and a little painted desk
surmounted by photographs; but the futility of the attempt struck her as
she looked about the room. What a contrast to the subtle elegance of the
setting she had pictured for herself--an apartment which should surpass
the complicated luxury of her friends' surroundings by the whole extent
of that artistic sensibility which made her feel herself their superior;
in which every tint and line should combine to enhance her beauty and
give distinction to her leisure! Once more the haunting sense of physical
ugliness was intensified by her mental depression, so that each piece of
the offending furniture seemed to thrust forth its most aggressive angle.

Her aunt's words had told her nothing new; but they had revived the
vision of Bertha Dorset, smiling, flattered, victorious, holding her up
to ridicule by insinuations intelligible to every member of their little
group. The thought of the ridicule struck deeper than any other
sensation: Lily knew every turn of the allusive jargon which could flay
its victims without the shedding of blood. Her cheek burned at the
recollection, and she rose and caught up the letters. She no longer meant
to destroy them: that intention had been effaced by the quick corrosion
of Mrs. Peniston's words.

Instead, she approached her desk, and lighting a taper, tied and sealed
the packet; then she opened the wardrobe, drew out a despatch-box, and
deposited the letters within it. As she did so, it struck her with a
flash of irony that she was indebted to Gus Trenor for the means of
buying them.



Chapter 10

The autumn dragged on monotonously. Miss Bart had received one or two
notes from Judy Trenor, reproaching her for not returning to Bellomont;
but she replied evasively, alleging the obligation to remain with her
aunt. In truth, however, she was fast wearying of her solitary existence
with Mrs. Peniston, and only the excitement of spending her
newly-acquired money lightened the dulness of the days.

All her life Lily had seen money go out as quickly as it came in, and
whatever theories she cultivated as to the prudence of setting aside a
part of her gains, she had unhappily no saving vision of the risks of the
opposite course. It was a keen satisfaction to feel that, for a few
months at least, she would be independent of her friends' bounty, that
she could show herself abroad without wondering whether some penetrating
eye would detect in her dress the traces of Judy Trenor's refurbished
splendour. The fact that the money freed her temporarily from all minor
obligations obscured her sense of the greater one it represented, and
having never before known what it was to command so large a sum, she
lingered delectably over the amusement of spending it.

It was on one of these occasions that, leaving a shop where she had spent
an hour of deliberation over a dressing-case of the most complicated
elegance, she ran across Miss Farish, who had entered the same
establishment with the modest object of having her watch repaired.  Lily
was feeling unusually virtuous. She had decided to defer the purchase of
the dressing-case till she should receive the bill for her new
opera-cloak, and the resolve made her feel much richer than when she had
entered the shop. In this mood of self-approval she had a sympathetic eye
for others, and she was struck by her friend's air of dejection.

Miss Farish, it appeared, had just left the committee-meeting of a
struggling charity in which she was interested. The object of the
association was to provide comfortable lodgings, with a reading-room and
other modest distractions, where young women of the class employed in
down town offices might find a home when out of work, or in need of rest,
and the first year's financial report showed so deplorably small a
balance that Miss Farish, who was convinced of the urgency of the work,
felt proportionately discouraged by the small amount of interest it
aroused. The other-regarding sentiments had not been cultivated in Lily,
and she was often bored by the relation of her friend's philanthropic
efforts, but today her quick dramatizing fancy seized on the contrast
between her own situation and that represented by some of Gerty's
"cases." These were young girls, like herself; some perhaps pretty, some
not without a trace of her finer sensibilities. She pictured herself
leading such a life as theirs--a life in which achievement seemed as
squalid as failure--and the vision made her shudder sympathetically. The
price of the dressing-case was still in her pocket; and drawing out her
little gold purse she slipped a liberal fraction of the amount into Miss
Farish's hand.

The satisfaction derived from this act was all that the most ardent
moralist could have desired. Lily felt a new interest in herself as a
person of charitable instincts: she had never before thought of doing
good with the wealth she had so often dreamed of possessing, but now her
horizon was enlarged by the vision of a prodigal philanthropy.  Moreover,
by some obscure process of logic, she felt that her momentary burst of
generosity had justified all previous extravagances, and excused any in
which she might subsequently indulge. Miss Farish's surprise and
gratitude confirmed this feeling, and Lily parted from her with a sense
of self-esteem which she naturally mistook for the fruits of altruism.

About this time she was farther cheered by an invitation to spend the
Thanksgiving week at a camp in the Adirondacks. The invitation was one
which, a year earlier, would have provoked a less ready response, for the
party, though organized by Mrs. Fisher, was ostensibly given by a lady of
obscure origin and indomitable social ambitions, whose acquaintance Lily
had hitherto avoided. Now, however, she was disposed to coincide with
Mrs. Fisher's view, that it didn't matter who gave the party, as long as
things were well done; and doing things well (under competent direction)
was Mrs. Wellington Bry's strong point. The lady (whose consort was known
as "Welly" Bry on the Stock Exchange and in sporting circles) had already
sacrificed one husband, and sundry minor considerations, to her
determination to get on; and, having obtained a hold on Carry Fisher, she
was astute enough to perceive the wisdom of committing herself entirely
to that lady's guidance. Everything, accordingly, was well done, for
there was no limit to Mrs. Fisher's prodigality when she was not spending
her own money, and as she remarked to her pupil, a good cook was the best
introduction to society. If the company was not as select as the CUISINE,
the Welly Brys at least had the satisfaction of figuring for the first
time in the society columns in company with one or two noticeable names;
and foremost among these was of course Miss Bart's. The young lady was
treated by her hosts with corresponding deference; and she was in the
mood when such attentions are acceptable, whatever their source. Mrs.
Bry's admiration was a mirror in which Lily's self-complacency recovered
its lost outline. No insect hangs its nest on threads as frail as those
which will sustain the weight of human vanity; and the sense of being of
importance among the insignificant was enough to restore to Miss Bart the
gratifying consciousness of power. If these people paid court to her it
proved that she was still conspicuous in the world to which they aspired;
and she was not above a certain enjoyment in dazzling them by her
fineness, in developing their puzzled perception of her superiorities.

Perhaps, however, her enjoyment proceeded more than she was aware from
the physical stimulus of the excursion, the challenge of crisp cold and
hard exercise, the responsive thrill of her body to the influences of the
winter woods. She returned to town in a glow of rejuvenation, conscious
of a clearer colour in her cheeks, a fresh elasticity in her muscles. The
future seemed full of a vague promise, and all her apprehensions were
swept out of sight on the buoyant current of her mood.

A few days after her return to town she had the unpleasant surprise of a
visit from Mr. Rosedale. He came late, at the confidential hour when the
tea-table still lingers by the fire in friendly expectancy; and his
manner showed a readiness to adapt itself to the intimacy of the occasion.

Lily, who had a vague sense of his being somehow connected with her lucky
speculations, tried to give him the welcome he expected; but there was
something in the quality of his geniality which chilled her own, and she
was conscious of marking each step in their acquaintance by a fresh
blunder.

Mr. Rosedale--making himself promptly at home in an adjoining easy-chair,
and sipping his tea critically, with the comment: "You ought to go to my
man for something really good"--appeared totally unconscious of the
repugnance which kept her in frozen erectness behind the urn. It was
perhaps her very manner of holding herself aloof that appealed to his
collector's passion for the rare and unattainable. He gave, at any rate,
no sign of resenting it and seemed prepared to supply in his own manner
all the ease that was lacking in hers.

His object in calling was to ask her to go to the opera in his box on the
opening night, and seeing her hesitate he said persuasively: "Mrs. Fisher
is coming, and I've secured a tremendous admirer of yours, who'll never
forgive me if you don't accept."

As Lily's silence left him with this allusion on his hands, he added with
a confidential smile: "Gus Trenor has promised to come to town on
purpose. I fancy he'd go a good deal farther for the pleasure of seeing
you."

Miss Bart felt an inward motion of annoyance: it was distasteful enough
to hear her name coupled with Trenor's, and on Rosedale's lips the
allusion was peculiarly unpleasant.

"The Trenors are my best friends--I think we should all go a long way to
see each other," she said, absorbing herself in the preparation of fresh
tea.

Her visitor's smile grew increasingly intimate. "Well, I wasn't thinking
of Mrs. Trenor at the moment--they say Gus doesn't always, you know."
Then, dimly conscious that he had not struck the right note, he added,
with a well-meant effort at diversion: "How's your luck been going in
Wall Street, by the way? I hear Gus pulled off a nice little pile for you
last month."

Lily put down the tea-caddy with an abrupt gesture. She felt that her
hands were trembling, and clasped them on her knee to steady them; but
her lip trembled too, and for a moment she was afraid the tremor might
communicate itself to her voice. When she spoke, however, it was in a
tone of perfect lightness.

"Ah, yes--I had a little bit of money to invest, and Mr. Trenor, who
helps me about such matters, advised my putting it in stocks instead of a
mortgage, as my aunt's agent wanted me to do; and as it happened, I made
a lucky 'turn'--is that what you call it? For you make a great many
yourself, I believe."

She was smiling back at him now, relaxing the tension of her attitude,
and admitting him, by imperceptible gradations of glance and manner, a
step farther toward intimacy. The protective instinct always nerved her
to successful dissimulation, and it was not the first time she had used
her beauty to divert attention from an inconvenient topic.

When Mr. Rosedale took leave, he carried with him, not only her
acceptance of his invitation, but a general sense of having comported
himself in a way calculated to advance his cause. He had always believed
he had a light touch and a knowing way with women, and the prompt manner
in which Miss Bart (as he would have phrased it) had "come into line,"
confirmed his confidence in his powers of handling this skittish sex. Her
way of glossing over the transaction with Trenor he regarded at once as a
tribute to his own acuteness, and a confirmation of his suspicions. The
girl was evidently nervous, and Mr. Rosedale, if he saw no other means of
advancing his acquaintance with her, was not above taking advantage of
her nervousness.

He left Lily to a passion of disgust and fear. It seemed incredible that
Gus Trenor should have spoken of her to Rosedale.  With all his faults,
Trenor had the safeguard of his traditions, and was the less likely to
overstep them because they were so purely instinctive. But Lily recalled
with a pang that there were convivial moments when, as Judy had confided
to her, Gus "talked foolishly": in one of these, no doubt, the fatal word
had slipped from him. As for Rosedale, she did not, after the first
shock, greatly care what conclusions he had drawn.  Though usually adroit
enough where her own interests were concerned, she made the mistake, not
uncommon to persons in whom the social habits are instinctive, of
supposing that the inability to acquire them quickly implies a general
dulness. Because a blue-bottle bangs irrationally against a window-pane,
the drawing-room naturalist may forget that under less artificial
conditions it is capable of measuring distances and drawing conclusions
with all the accuracy needful to its welfare; and the fact that Mr.
Rosedale's drawing-room manner lacked perspective made Lily class him
with Trenor and the other dull men she knew, and assume that a little
flattery, and the occasional acceptance of his hospitality, would suffice
to render him innocuous. However, there could be no doubt of the
expediency of showing herself in his box on the opening night of the
opera; and after all, since Judy Trenor had promised to take him up that
winter, it was as well to reap the advantage of being first in the field.

For a day or two after Rosedale's visit, Lily's thoughts were dogged by
the consciousness of Trenor's shadowy claim, and she wished she had a
clearer notion of the exact nature of the transaction which seemed to
have put her in his power; but her mind shrank from any unusual
application, and she was always helplessly puzzled by figures. Moreover
she had not seen Trenor since the day of the Van Osburgh wedding, and in
his continued absence the trace of Rosedale's words was soon effaced by
other impressions.

When the opening night of the opera came, her apprehensions had so
completely vanished that the sight of Trenor's ruddy countenance in the
back of Mr. Rosedale's box filled her with a sense of pleasant
reassurance. Lily had not quite reconciled herself to the necessity of
appearing as Rosedale's guest on so conspicuous an occasion, and it was a
relief to find herself supported by any one of her own set--for Mrs.
Fisher's social habits were too promiscuous for her presence to justify
Miss Bart's.

To Lily, always inspirited by the prospect of showing her beauty in
public, and conscious tonight of all the added enhancements of dress, the
insistency of Trenor's gaze merged itself in the general stream of
admiring looks of which she felt herself the centre. Ah, it was good to
be young, to be radiant, to glow with the sense of slenderness, strength
and elasticity, of well-poised lines and happy tints, to feel one's self
lifted to a height apart by that incommunicable grace which is the bodily
counterpart of genius!

All means seemed justifiable to attain such an end, or rather, by a happy
shifting of lights with which practice had familiarized Miss Bart, the
cause shrank to a pin-point in the general brightness of the effect. But
brilliant young ladies, a little blinded by their own effulgence, are apt
to forget that the modest satellite drowned in their light is still
performing its own revolutions and generating heat at its own rate. If
Lily's poetic enjoyment of the moment was undisturbed by the base thought
that her gown and opera cloak had been indirectly paid for by Gus Trenor,
the latter had not sufficient poetry in his composition to lose sight of
these prosaic facts. He knew only that he had never seen Lily look
smarter in her life, that there wasn't a woman in the house who showed
off good clothes as she did, and that hitherto he, to whom she owed the
opportunity of making this display, had reaped no return beyond that of
gazing at her in company with several hundred other pairs of eyes.

It came to Lily therefore as a disagreeable surprise when, in the back of
the box, where they found themselves alone between two acts, Trenor said,
without preamble, and in a tone of sulky authority: "Look here, Lily, how
is a fellow ever to see anything of you? I'm in town three or four days
in the week, and you know a line to the club will always find me, but you
don't seem to remember my existence nowadays unless you want to get a tip
out of me."

The fact that the remark was in distinctly bad taste did not make it any
easier to answer, for Lily was vividly aware that it was not the moment
for that drawing up of her slim figure and surprised lifting of the brows
by which she usually quelled incipient signs of familiarity.

"I'm very much flattered by your wanting to see me," she returned,
essaying lightness instead, "but, unless you have mislaid my address, it
would have been easy to find me any afternoon at my aunt's--in fact, I
rather expected you to look me up there."

If she hoped to mollify him by this last concession the attempt was a
failure, for he only replied, with the familiar lowering of the brows
that made him look his dullest when he was angry: "Hang going to your
aunt's, and wasting the afternoon listening to a lot of other chaps
talking to you! You know I'm not the kind to sit in a crowd and jaw--I'd
always rather clear out when that sort of circus is going on.  But why
can't we go off somewhere on a little lark together--a nice quiet little
expedition like that drive at Bellomont, the day you met me at the
station?"

He leaned unpleasantly close in order to convey this suggestion, and she
fancied she caught a significant aroma which explained the dark flush on
his face and the glistening dampness of his forehead.

The idea that any rash answer might provoke an unpleasant outburst
tempered her disgust with caution, and she answered with a laugh: "I
don't see how one can very well take country drives in town, but I am not
always surrounded by an admiring throng, and if you will let me know what
afternoon you are coming I will arrange things so that we can have a nice
quiet talk."

"Hang talking! That's what you always say," returned Trenor, whose
expletives lacked variety. "You put me off with that at the Van Osburgh
wedding--but the plain English of it is that, now you've got what you
wanted out of me, you'd rather have any other fellow about."

His voice had risen sharply with the last words, and Lily flushed with
annoyance, but she kept command of the situation and laid a persuasive
hand on his arm.

"Don't be foolish, Gus; I can't let you talk to me in that ridiculous
way. If you really want to see me, why shouldn't we take a walk in the
Park some afternoon? I agree with you that it's amusing to be rustic in
town, and if you like I'll meet you there, and we'll go and feed the
squirrels, and you shall take me out on the lake in the steam-gondola."

She smiled as she spoke, letting her eyes rest on his in a way that took
the edge from her banter and made him suddenly malleable to her will.

"All right, then: that's a go. Will you come tomorrow? Tomorrow at three
o'clock, at the end of the Mall. I'll be there sharp, remember; you won't
go back on me, Lily?"

But to Miss Bart's relief the repetition of her promise was cut short by
the opening of the box door to admit George Dorset.

Trenor sulkily yielded his place, and Lily turned a brilliant smile on
the newcomer. She had not talked with Dorset since their visit at
Bellomont, but something in his look and manner told her that he recalled
the friendly footing on which they had last met. He was not a man to whom
the expression of admiration came easily: his long sallow face and
distrustful eyes seemed always barricaded against the expansive emotions.
But, where her own influence was concerned, Lily's intuitions sent out
thread-like feelers, and as she made room for him on the narrow sofa she
was sure he found a dumb pleasure in being near her. Few women took the
trouble to make themselves agreeable to Dorset, and Lily had been kind to
him at Bellomont, and was now smiling on him with a divine renewal of
kindness.

"Well, here we are, in for another six months of caterwauling," he began
complainingly. "Not a shade of difference between this year and last,
except that the women have got new clothes and the singers haven't got
new voices. My wife's musical, you know--puts me through a course of this
every winter. It isn't so bad on Italian nights--then she comes late, and
there's time to digest.  But when they give Wagner we have to rush
dinner, and I pay up for it. And the draughts are damnable--asphyxia in
front and pleurisy in the back. There's Trenor leaving the box without
drawing the curtain! With a hide like that draughts don't make any
difference. Did you ever watch Trenor eat? If you did, you'd wonder why
he's alive; I suppose he's leather inside too.--But I came to say that my
wife wants you to come down to our place next Sunday. Do for heaven's
sake say yes. She's got a lot of bores coming--intellectual ones, I mean;
that's her new line, you know, and I'm not sure it ain't worse than the
music. Some of 'em have long hair, and they start an argument with the
soup, and don't notice when things are handed to them. The consequence is
the dinner gets cold, and I have dyspepsia. That silly ass Silverton
brings them to the house--he writes poetry, you know, and Bertha and he
are getting tremendously thick. She could write better than any of 'em if
she chose, and I don't blame her for wanting clever fellows about; all I
say is: 'Don't let me see 'em eat!'"

The gist of this strange communication gave Lily a distinct thrill of
pleasure. Under ordinary circumstances, there would have been nothing
surprising in an invitation from Bertha Dorset; but since the Bellomont
episode an unavowed hostility had kept the two women apart. Now, with a
start of inner wonder, Lily felt that her thirst for retaliation had died
out. IF YOU WOULD FORGIVE YOUR ENEMY, says the Malay proverb, FIRST
INFLICT A HURT ON HIM; and Lily was experiencing the truth of the
apothegm.  If she had destroyed Mrs. Dorset's letters, she might have
continued to hate her; but the fact that they remained in her possession
had fed her resentment to satiety.

She uttered a smiling acceptance, hailing in the renewal of the tie an
escape from Trenor's importunities.



Chapter 11

Meanwhile the holidays had gone by and the season was beginning.  Fifth
Avenue had become a nightly torrent of carriages surging upward to the
fashionable quarters about the Park, where illuminated windows and
outspread awnings betokened the usual routine of hospitality. Other
tributary currents crossed the mainstream, bearing their freight to the
theatres, restaurants or opera; and Mrs. Peniston, from the secluded
watch-tower of her upper window, could tell to a nicety just when the
chronic volume of sound was increased by the sudden influx setting toward
a Van Osburgh ball, or when the multiplication of wheels meant merely
that the opera was over, or that there was a big supper at Sherry's.

Mrs. Peniston followed the rise and culmination of the season as keenly
as the most active sharer in its gaieties; and, as a looker-on, she
enjoyed opportunities of comparison and generalization such as those who
take part must proverbially forego. No one could have kept a more
accurate record of social fluctuations, or have put a more unerring
finger on the distinguishing features of each season: its dulness, its
extravagance, its lack of balls or excess of divorces. She had a special
memory for the vicissitudes of the "new people" who rose to the surface
with each recurring tide, and were either submerged beneath its rush or
landed triumphantly beyond the reach of envious breakers; and she was apt
to display a remarkable retrospective insight into their ultimate fate,
so that, when they had fulfilled their destiny, she was almost always
able to say to Grace Stepney--the recipient of her prophecies--that she
had known exactly what would happen.

This particular season Mrs. Peniston would have characterized as that in
which everybody "felt poor" except the Welly Brys and Mr. Simon Rosedale.
It had been a bad autumn in Wall Street, where prices fell in accordance
with that peculiar law which proves railway stocks and bales of cotton to
be more sensitive to the allotment of executive power than many estimable
citizens trained to all the advantages of self-government. Even fortunes
supposed to be independent of the market either betrayed a secret
dependence on it, or suffered from a sympathetic affection: fashion
sulked in its country houses, or came to town incognito, general
entertainments were discountenanced, and informality and short dinners
became the fashion.

But society, amused for a while at playing Cinderella, soon wearied of
the hearthside role, and welcomed the Fairy Godmother in the shape of any
magician powerful enough to turn the shrunken pumpkin back again into the
golden coach. The mere fact of growing richer at a time when most
people's investments are shrinking, is calculated to attract envious
attention; and according to Wall Street rumours, Welly Bry and Rosedale
had found the secret of performing this miracle.

Rosedale, in particular, was said to have doubled his fortune, and there
was talk of his buying the newly-finished house of one of the victims of
the crash, who, in the space of twelve short months, had made the same
number of millions, built a house in Fifth Avenue, filled a
picture-gallery with old masters, entertained all New York in it, and
been smuggled out of the country between a trained nurse and a doctor,
while his creditors mounted guard over the old masters, and his guests
explained to each other that they had dined with him only because they
wanted to see the pictures. Mr. Rosedale meant to have a less meteoric
career. He knew he should have to go slowly, and the instincts of his
race fitted him to suffer rebuffs and put up with delays. But he was
prompt to perceive that the general dulness of the season afforded him an
unusual opportunity to shine, and he set about with patient industry to
form a background for his growing glory.  Mrs. Fisher was of immense
service to him at this period. She had set off so many newcomers on the
social stage that she was like one of those pieces of stock scenery which
tell the experienced spectator exactly what is going to take place. But
Mr. Rosedale wanted, in the long run, a more individual environment. He
was sensitive to shades of difference which Miss Bart would never have
credited him with perceiving, because he had no corresponding variations
of manner; and it was becoming more and more clear to him that Miss Bart
herself possessed precisely the complementary qualities needed to round
off his social personality.

Such details did not fall within the range of Mrs. Peniston's vision.
Like many minds of panoramic sweep, hers was apt to overlook the MINUTIAE
of the foreground, and she was much more likely to know where Carry
Fisher had found the Welly Brys' CHEF for them, than what was happening
to her own niece. She was not, however, without purveyors of information
ready to supplement her deficiencies. Grace Stepney's mind was like a
kind of moral fly-paper, to which the buzzing items of gossip were drawn
by a fatal attraction, and where they hung fast in the toils of an
inexorable memory. Lily would have been surprised to know how many
trivial facts concerning herself were lodged in Miss Stepney's head. She
was quite aware that she was of interest to dingy people, but she assumed
that there is only one form of dinginess, and that admiration for
brilliancy is the natural expression of its inferior state. She knew that
Gerty Farish admired her blindly, and therefore supposed that she
inspired the same sentiments in Grace Stepney, whom she classified as a
Gerty Farish without the saving traits of youth and enthusiasm.

In reality, the two differed from each other as much as they differed
from the object of their mutual contemplation. Miss Farish's heart was a
fountain of tender illusions, Miss Stepney's a precise register of facts
as manifested in their relation to herself. She had sensibilities which,
to Lily, would have seemed comic in a person with a freckled nose and red
eyelids, who lived in a boarding-house and admired Mrs. Peniston's
drawing-room; but poor Grace's limitations gave them a more concentrated
inner life, as poor soil starves certain plants into intenser
efflorescence. She had in truth no abstract propensity to malice: she did
not dislike Lily because the latter was brilliant and predominant, but
because she thought that Lily disliked her. It is less mortifying to
believe one's self unpopular than insignificant, and vanity prefers to
assume that indifference is a latent form of unfriendliness. Even such
scant civilities as Lily accorded to Mr. Rosedale would have made Miss
Stepney her friend for life; but how could she foresee that such a friend
was worth cultivating? How, moreover, can a young woman who has never
been ignored measure the pang which this injury inflicts? And, lastly,
how could Lily, accustomed to choose between a pressure of engagements,
guess that she had mortally offended Miss Stepney by causing her to be
excluded from one of Mrs. Peniston's infrequent dinner-parties?

Mrs. Peniston disliked giving dinners, but she had a high sense of family
obligation, and on the Jack Stepneys' return from their honeymoon she
felt it incumbent upon her to light the drawing-room lamps and extract
her best silver from the Safe Deposit vaults. Mrs. Peniston's rare
entertainments were preceded by days of heart-rending vacillation as to
every detail of the feast, from the seating of the guests to the pattern
of the table-cloth, and in the course of one of these preliminary
discussions she had imprudently suggested to her cousin Grace that, as
the dinner was a family affair, she might be included in it. For a week
the prospect had lighted up Miss Stepney's colourless existence; then she
had been given to understand that it would be more convenient to have her
another day. Miss Stepney knew exactly what had happened. Lily, to whom
family reunions were occasions of unalloyed dulness, had persuaded her
aunt that a dinner of "smart" people would be much more to the taste of
the young couple, and Mrs. Peniston, who leaned helplessly on her niece
in social matters, had been prevailed upon to pronounce Grace's exile.
After all, Grace could come any other day; why should she mind being put
off?

It was precisely because Miss Stepney could come any other day--and
because she knew her relations were in the secret of her unoccupied
evenings--that this incident loomed gigantically on her horizon. She was
aware that she had Lily to thank for it; and dull resentment was turned
to active animosity.

Mrs. Peniston, on whom she had looked in a day or two after the dinner,
laid down her crochet-work and turned abruptly from her oblique survey of
Fifth Avenue.

"Gus Trenor?--Lily and Gus Trenor?" she said, growing so suddenly pale
that her visitor was almost alarmed.

"Oh, cousin Julia . . . of course I don't mean . . ."

"I don't know what you DO mean," said Mrs. Peniston, with a frightened
quiver in her small fretful voice. "Such things were never heard of in my
day. And my own niece! I'm not sure I understand you. Do people say he's
in love with her?"

Mrs. Peniston's horror was genuine. Though she boasted an unequalled
familiarity with the secret chronicles of society, she had the innocence
of the school-girl who regards wickedness as a part of "history," and to
whom it never occurs that the scandals she reads of in lesson-hours may
be repeating themselves in the next street. Mrs. Peniston had kept her
imagination shrouded, like the drawing-room furniture. She knew, of
course, that society was "very much changed," and that many women her
mother would have thought "peculiar" were now in a position to be
critical about their visiting-lists; she had discussed the perils of
divorce with her rector, and had felt thankful at times that Lily was
still unmarried; but the idea that any scandal could attach to a young
girl's name, above all that it could be lightly coupled with that of a
married man, was so new to her that she was as much aghast as if she had
been accused of leaving her carpets down all summer, or of violating any
of the other cardinal laws of housekeeping.

Miss Stepney, when her first fright had subsided, began to feel the
superiority that greater breadth of mind confers. It was really pitiable
to be as ignorant of the world as Mrs. Peniston!  She smiled at the
latter's question. "People always say unpleasant things--and certainly
they're a great deal together. A friend of mine met them the other
afternoon in the Park--quite late, after the lamps were lit. It's a pity
Lily makes herself so conspicuous."

"CONSPICUOUS!" gasped Mrs. Peniston. She bent forward, lowering her voice
to mitigate the horror. "What sort of things do they say? That he means
to get a divorce and marry her?"

Grace Stepney laughed outright. "Dear me, no! He would hardly do that.
It--it's a flirtation--nothing more."

"A flirtation? Between my niece and a married man? Do you mean to tell me
that, with Lily's looks and advantages, she could find no better use for
her time than to waste it on a fat stupid man almost old enough to be her
father?" This argument had such a convincing ring that it gave Mrs.
Peniston sufficient reassurance to pick up her work, while she waited for
Grace Stepney to rally her scattered forces.

But Miss Stepney was on the spot in an instant. "That's the worst of
it--people say she isn't wasting her time! Every one knows, as you say,
that Lily is too handsome and--and charming--to devote herself to a man
like Gus Trenor unless--"

"Unless?" echoed Mrs. Peniston. Her visitor drew breath nervously. It was
agreeable to shock Mrs. Peniston, but not to shock her to the verge of
anger. Miss Stepney was not sufficiently familiar with the classic drama
to have recalled in advance how bearers of bad tidings are proverbially
received, but she now had a rapid vision of forfeited dinners and a
reduced wardrobe as the possible consequence of her disinterestedness. To
the honour of her sex, however, hatred of Lily prevailed over more
personal considerations. Mrs. Peniston had chosen the wrong moment to
boast of her niece's charms.

"Unless," said Grace, leaning forward to speak with low-toned emphasis,
"unless there are material advantages to be gained by making herself
agreeable to him."

She felt that the moment was tremendous, and remembered suddenly that
Mrs. Peniston's black brocade, with the cut jet fringe, would have been
hers at the end of the season.

Mrs. Peniston put down her work again. Another aspect of the same idea
had presented itself to her, and she felt that it was beneath her dignity
to have her nerves racked by a dependent relative who wore her old
clothes.

"If you take pleasure in annoying me by mysterious insinuations," she
said coldly, "you might at least have chosen a more suitable time than
just as I am recovering from the strain of giving a large dinner."

The mention of the dinner dispelled Miss Stepney's last scruples.  "I
don't know why I should be accused of taking pleasure in telling you
about Lily. I was sure I shouldn't get any thanks for it," she returned
with a flare of temper. "But I have some family feeling left, and as you
are the only person who has any authority over Lily, I thought you ought
to know what is being said of her."

"Well," said Mrs. Peniston, "what I complain of is that you haven't told
me yet what IS being said."

"I didn't suppose I should have to put it so plainly. People say that Gus
Trenor pays her bills."

"Pays her bills--her bills?" Mrs. Peniston broke into a laugh. "I can't
imagine where you can have picked up such rubbish. Lily has her own
income--and I provide for her very handsomely--"

"Oh, we all know that," interposed Miss Stepney drily. "But Lily wears a
great many smart gowns--"

"I like her to be well-dressed--it's only suitable!"

"Certainly; but then there are her gambling debts besides."

Miss Stepney, in the beginning, had not meant to bring up this point; but
Mrs. Peniston had only her own incredulity to blame.  She was like the
stiff-necked unbelievers of Scripture, who must be annihilated to be
convinced.

"Gambling debts? Lily?" Mrs. Peniston's voice shook with anger and
bewilderment. She wondered whether Grace Stepney had gone out of her
mind. "What do you mean by her gambling debts?"

"Simply that if one plays bridge for money in Lily's set one is liable to
lose a great deal--and I don't suppose Lily always wins."

"Who told you that my niece played cards for money?"

"Mercy, cousin Julia, don't look at me as if I were trying to turn you
against Lily! Everybody knows she is crazy about bridge.  Mrs. Gryce told
me herself that it was her gambling that frightened Percy Gryce--it seems
he was really taken with her at first. But, of course, among Lily's
friends it's quite the custom for girls to play for money.  In fact,
people are inclined to excuse her on that account----"

"To excuse her for what?"

"For being hard up--and accepting attentions from men like Gus
Trenor--and George Dorset----"

Mrs. Peniston gave another cry. "George Dorset? Is there any one else?  I
should like to know the worst, if you please."

"Don't put it in that way, cousin Julia. Lately Lily has been a good deal
with the Dorsets, and he seems to admire her--but of course that's only
natural. And I'm sure there is no truth in the horrid things people say;
but she HAS been spending a great deal of money this winter. Evie Van
Osburgh was at Celeste's ordering her trousseau the other day--yes, the
marriage takes place next month--and she told me that Celeste showed her
the most exquisite things she was just sending home to Lily. And people
say that Judy Trenor has quarrelled with her on account of Gus; but I'm
sure I'm sorry I spoke, though I only meant it as a kindness."

Mrs. Peniston's genuine incredulity enabled her to dismiss Miss Stepney
with a disdain which boded ill for that lady's prospect of succeeding to
the black brocade; but minds impenetrable to reason have generally some
crack through which suspicion filters, and her visitor's insinuations did
not glide off as easily as she had expected. Mrs. Peniston disliked
scenes, and her determination to avoid them had always led her to hold
herself aloof from the details of Lily's life.  In her youth, girls had
not been supposed to require close supervision.  They were generally
assumed to be taken up with the legitimate business of courtship and
marriage, and interference in such affairs on the part of their natural
guardians was considered as unwarrantable as a spectator's suddenly
joining in a game. There had of course been "fast" girls even in Mrs.
Peniston's early experience; but their fastness, at worst, was understood
to be a mere excess of animal spirits, against which there could be no
graver charge than that of being "unladylike." The modern fastness
appeared synonymous with immorality, and the mere idea of immorality was
as offensive to Mrs. Peniston as a smell of cooking in the drawing-room:
it was one of the conceptions her mind refused to admit.

She had no immediate intention of repeating to Lily what she had heard,
or even of trying to ascertain its truth by means of discreet
interrogation. To do so might be to provoke a scene; and a scene, in the
shaken state of Mrs. Peniston's nerves, with the effects of her dinner
not worn off, and her mind still tremulous with new impressions, was a
risk she deemed it her duty to avoid.  But there remained in her thoughts
a settled deposit of resentment against her niece, all the denser because
it was not to be cleared by explanation or discussion.  It was horrible
of a young girl to let herself be talked about; however unfounded the
charges against her, she must be to blame for their having been made.
Mrs. Peniston felt as if there had been a contagious illness in the
house, and she was doomed to sit shivering among her contaminated
furniture.



Chapter 12

Miss Bart had in fact been treading a devious way, and none of her
critics could have been more alive to the fact than herself; but she had
a fatalistic sense of being drawn from one wrong turning to another,
without ever perceiving the right road till it was too late to take it.

Lily, who considered herself above narrow prejudices, had not imagined
that the fact of letting Gus Trenor make a little money for her would
ever disturb her self-complacency. And the fact in itself still seemed
harmless enough; only it was a fertile source of harmful complications.
As she exhausted the amusement of spending the money these complications
became more pressing, and Lily, whose mind could be severely logical in
tracing the causes of her ill-luck to others, justified herself by the
thought that she owed all her troubles to the enmity of Bertha Dorset.
This enmity, however, had apparently expired in a renewal of friendliness
between the two women. Lily's visit to the Dorsets had resulted, for
both, in the discovery that they could be of use to each other; and the
civilized instinct finds a subtler pleasure in making use of its
antagonist than in confounding him.  Mrs. Dorset was, in fact, engaged in
a new sentimental experiment, of which Mrs. Fisher's late property, Ned
Silverton, was the rosy victim; and at such moments, as Judy Trenor had
once remarked, she felt a peculiar need of distracting her husband's
attention. Dorset was as difficult to amuse as a savage; but even his
self-engrossment was not proof against Lily's arts, or rather these were
especially adapted to soothe an uneasy egoism. Her experience with Percy
Gryce stood her in good stead in ministering to Dorset's humours, and if
the incentive to please was less urgent, the difficulties of her
situation were teaching her to make much of minor opportunities.

Intimacy with the Dorsets was not likely to lessen such difficulties on
the material side. Mrs. Dorset had none of Judy Trenor's lavish impulses,
and Dorset's admiration was not likely to express itself in financial
"tips," even had Lily cared to renew her experiences in that line. What
she required, for the moment, of the Dorsets' friendship, was simply its
social sanction. She knew that people were beginning to talk of her; but
this fact did not alarm her as it had alarmed Mrs. Peniston. In her set
such gossip was not unusual, and a handsome girl who flirted with a
married man was merely assumed to be pressing to the limit of her
opportunities. It was Trenor himself who frightened her.  Their walk in
the Park had not been a success.  Trenor had married young, and since his
marriage his intercourse with women had not taken the form of the
sentimental small-talk which doubles upon itself like the paths in a
maze. He was first puzzled and then irritated to find himself always led
back to the same starting-point, and Lily felt that she was gradually
losing control of the situation. Trenor was in truth in an unmanageable
mood. In spite of his understanding with Rosedale he had been somewhat
heavily "touched" by the fall in stocks; his household expenses weighed
on him, and he seemed to be meeting, on all sides, a sullen opposition to
his wishes, instead of the easy good luck he had hitherto encountered.

Mrs. Trenor was still at Bellomont, keeping the town-house open, and
descending on it now and then for a taste of the world, but preferring
the recurrent excitement of week-end parties to the restrictions of a
dull season. Since the holidays she had not urged Lily to return to
Bellomont, and the first time they met in town Lily fancied there was a
shade of coldness in her manner.  Was it merely the expression of her
displeasure at Miss Bart's neglect, or had disquieting rumours reached
her? The latter contingency seemed improbable, yet Lily was not without a
sense of uneasiness. If her roaming sympathies had struck root anywhere,
it was in her friendship with Judy Trenor. She believed in the sincerity
of her friend's affection, though it sometimes showed itself in
self-interested ways, and she shrank with peculiar reluctance from any
risk of estranging it. But, aside from this, she was keenly conscious of
the way in which such an estrangement would react on herself. The fact
that Gus Trenor was Judy's husband was at times Lily's strongest reason
for disliking him, and for resenting the obligation under which he had
placed her. To set her doubts at rest, Miss Bart, soon after the New
Year, "proposed" herself for a week-end at Bellomont. She had learned in
advance that the presence of a large party would protect her from too
great assiduity on Trenor's part, and his wife's telegraphic "come by all
means" seemed to assure her of her usual welcome.

Judy received her amicably. The cares of a large party always prevailed
over personal feelings, and Lily saw no change in her hostess's manner.
Nevertheless, she was soon aware that the experiment of coming to
Bellomont was destined not to be successful. The party was made up of
what Mrs. Trenor called "poky people"--her generic name for persons who
did not play bridge--and, it being her habit to group all such
obstructionists in one class, she usually invited them together,
regardless of their other characteristics. The result was apt to be an
irreducible combination of persons having no other quality in common than
their abstinence from bridge, and the antagonisms developed in a group
lacking the one taste which might have amalgamated them, were in this
case aggravated by bad weather, and by the ill-concealed boredom of their
host and hostess. In such emergencies, Judy would usually have turned to
Lily to fuse the discordant elements; and Miss Bart, assuming that such a
service was expected of her, threw herself into it with her accustomed
zeal. But at the outset she perceived a subtle resistance to her efforts.
If Mrs. Trenor's manner toward her was unchanged, there was certainly a
faint coldness in that of the other ladies. An occasional caustic
allusion to "your friends the Wellington Brys," or to "the little Jew who
has bought the Greiner house--some one told us you knew him, Miss
Bart,"--showed Lily that she was in disfavour with that portion of
society which, while contributing least to its amusement, has assumed the
right to decide what forms that amusement shall take. The indication was
a slight one, and a year ago Lily would have smiled at it, trusting to
the charm of her personality to dispel any prejudice against her. But now
she had grown more sensitive to criticism and less confident in her power
of disarming it. She knew, moreover, that if the ladies at Bellomont
permitted themselves to criticize her friends openly, it was a proof that
they were not afraid of subjecting her to the same treatment behind her
back. The nervous dread lest anything in Trenor's manner should seem to
justify their disapproval made her seek every pretext for avoiding him,
and she left Bellomont conscious of having failed in every purpose which
had taken her there.

In town she returned to preoccupations which, for the moment, had the
happy effect of banishing troublesome thoughts. The Welly Brys, after
much debate, and anxious counsel with their newly acquired friends, had
decided on the bold move of giving a general entertainment. To attack
society collectively, when one's means of approach are limited to a few
acquaintances, is like advancing into a strange country with an
insufficient number of scouts; but such rash tactics have sometimes led
to brilliant victories, and the Brys had determined to put their fate to
the touch. Mrs. Fisher, to whom they had entrusted the conduct of the
affair, had decided that TABLEAUX VIVANTS and expensive music were the
two baits most likely to attract the desired prey, and after prolonged
negotiations, and the kind of wire-pulling in which she was known to
excel, she had induced a dozen fashionable women to exhibit themselves in
a series of pictures which, by a farther miracle of persuasion, the
distinguished portrait painter, Paul Morpeth, had been prevailed upon to
organize.

Lily was in her element on such occasions. Under Morpeth's guidance her
vivid plastic sense, hitherto nurtured on no higher food than
dress-making and upholstery, found eager expression in the disposal of
draperies, the study of attitudes, the shifting of lights and shadows.
Her dramatic instinct was roused by the choice of subjects, and the
gorgeous reproductions of historic dress stirred an imagination which
only visual impressions could reach. But keenest of all was the
exhilaration of displaying her own beauty under a new aspect: of showing
that her loveliness was no mere fixed quality, but an element shaping all
emotions to fresh forms of grace.

Mrs. Fisher's measures had been well-taken, and society, surprised in a
dull moment, succumbed to the temptation of Mrs. Bry's hospitality. The
protesting minority were forgotten in the throng which abjured and came;
and the audience was almost as brilliant as the show.

Lawrence Selden was among those who had yielded to the proffered
inducements. If he did not often act on the accepted social axiom that a
man may go where he pleases, it was because he had long since learned
that his pleasures were mainly to be found in a small group of the
like-minded. But he enjoyed spectacular effects, and was not insensible
to the part money plays in their production: all he asked was that the
very rich should live up to their calling as stage-managers, and not
spend their money in a dull way. This the Brys could certainly not be
charged with doing. Their recently built house, whatever it might lack as
a frame for domesticity, was almost as well-designed for the display of a
festal assemblage as one of those airy pleasure-halls which the Italian
architects improvised to set off the hospitality of princes.  The air of
improvisation was in fact strikingly present: so recent, so
rapidly-evoked was the whole MISE-EN-SCENE that one had to touch the
marble columns to learn they were not of cardboard, to seat one's self in
one of the damask-and-gold arm-chairs to be sure it was not painted
against the wall.

Selden, who had put one of these seats to the test, found himself, from
an angle of the ball-room, surveying the scene with frank enjoyment.  The
company, in obedience to the decorative instinct which calls for fine
clothes in fine surroundings, had dressed rather with an eye to Mrs.
Bry's background than to herself. The seated throng, filling the immense
room without undue crowding, presented a surface of rich tissues and
jewelled shoulders in harmony with the festooned and gilded walls, and
the flushed splendours of the Venetian ceiling. At the farther end of the
room a stage had been constructed behind a proscenium arch curtained with
folds of old damask; but in the pause before the parting of the folds
there was little thought of what they might reveal, for every woman who
had accepted Mrs. Bry's invitation was engaged in trying to find out how
many of her friends had done the same.

Gerty Farish, seated next to Selden, was lost in that indiscriminate and
uncritical enjoyment so irritating to Miss Bart's finer perceptions. It
may be that Selden's nearness had something to do with the quality of his
cousin's pleasure; but Miss Farish was so little accustomed to refer her
enjoyment of such scenes to her own share in them, that she was merely
conscious of a deeper sense of contentment.

"Wasn't it dear of Lily to get me an invitation? Of course it would never
have occurred to Carry Fisher to put me on the list, and I should have
been so sorry to miss seeing it all--and especially Lily herself.  Some
one told me the ceiling was by Veronese--you would know, of course,
Lawrence. I suppose it's very beautiful, but his women are so dreadfully
fat. Goddesses?  Well, I can only say that if they'd been mortals and had
to wear corsets, it would have been better for them. I think our women
are much handsomer. And this room is wonderfully becoming--every one
looks so well! Did you ever see such jewels? Do look at Mrs. George
Dorset's pearls--I suppose the smallest of them would pay the rent of our
Girls' Club for a year. Not that I ought to complain about the club;
every one has been so wonderfully kind.  Did I tell you that Lily had
given us three hundred dollars?  Wasn't it splendid of her? And then she
collected a lot of money from her friends--Mrs. Bry gave us five hundred,
and Mr. Rosedale a thousand. I wish Lily were not so nice to Mr.
Rosedale, but she says it's no use being rude to him, because he doesn't
see the difference. She really can't bear to hurt people's feelings--it
makes me so angry when I hear her called cold and conceited! The girls at
the club don't call her that. Do you know she has been there with me
twice?--yes, Lily! And you should have seen their eyes! One of them said
it was as good as a day in the country just to look at her. And she sat
there, and laughed and talked with them--not a bit as if she were being
CHARITABLE, you know, but as if she liked it as much as they did. They've
been asking ever since when she's coming back; and she's promised
me----oh!"

Miss Farish's confidences were cut short by the parting of the curtain on
the first TABLEAU--a group of nymphs dancing across flower-strewn sward
in the rhythmic postures of Botticelli's Spring. TABLEAUX VIVANTS depend
for their effect not only on the happy disposal of lights and the
delusive-interposition of layers of gauze, but on a corresponding
adjustment of the mental vision.  To unfurnished minds they remain, in
spite of every enhancement of art, only a superior kind of wax-works; but
to the responsive fancy they may give magic glimpses of the boundary
world between fact and imagination. Selden's mind was of this order: he
could yield to vision-making influences as completely as a child to the
spell of a fairy-tale. Mrs. Bry's TABLEAUX wanted none of the qualities
which go to the producing of such illusions, and under Morpeth's
organizing hand the pictures succeeded each other with the rhythmic march
of some splendid frieze, in which the fugitive curves of living flesh and
the wandering light of young eyes have been subdued to plastic harmony
without losing the charm of life.

The scenes were taken from old pictures, and the participators had been
cleverly fitted with characters suited to their types.  No one, for
instance, could have made a more typical Goya than Carry Fisher, with her
short dark-skinned face, the exaggerated glow of her eyes, the
provocation of her frankly-painted smile. A brilliant Miss Smedden from
Brooklyn showed to perfection the sumptuous curves of Titian's Daughter,
lifting her gold salver laden with grapes above the harmonizing gold of
rippled hair and rich brocade, and a young Mrs. Van Alstyne, who showed
the frailer Dutch type, with high blue-veined forehead and pale eyes and
lashes, made a characteristic Vandyck, in black satin, against a
curtained archway. Then there were Kauffmann nymphs garlanding the altar
of Love; a Veronese supper, all sheeny textures, pearl-woven heads and
marble architecture; and a Watteau group of lute-playing comedians,
lounging by a fountain in a sunlit glade.

Each evanescent picture touched the vision-building faculty in Selden,
leading him so far down the vistas of fancy that even Gerty Farish's
running commentary--"Oh, how lovely Lulu Melson looks!" or: "That must be
Kate Corby, to the right there, in purple"--did not break the spell of
the illusion. Indeed, so skilfully had the personality of the actors been
subdued to the scenes they figured in that even the least imaginative of
the audience must have felt a thrill of contrast when the curtain
suddenly parted on a picture which was simply and undisguisedly the
portrait of Miss Bart.

Here there could be no mistaking the predominance of personality--the
unanimous "Oh!" of the spectators was a tribute, not to the brush-work of
Reynolds's "Mrs. Lloyd" but to the flesh and blood loveliness of Lily
Bart. She had shown her artistic intelligence in selecting a type so like
her own that she could embody the person represented without ceasing to
be herself. It was as though she had stepped, not out of, but into,
Reynolds's canvas, banishing the phantom of his dead beauty by the beams
of her living grace. The impulse to show herself in a splendid
setting--she had thought for a moment of representing Tiepolo's
Cleopatra--had yielded to the truer instinct of trusting to her
unassisted beauty, and she had purposely chosen a picture without
distracting accessories of dress or surroundings.  Her pale draperies,
and the background of foliage against which she stood, served only to
relieve the long dryad-like curves that swept upward from her poised foot
to her lifted arm. The noble buoyancy of her attitude, its suggestion of
soaring grace, revealed the touch of poetry in her beauty that Selden
always felt in her presence, yet lost the sense of when he was not with
her. Its expression was now so vivid that for the first time he seemed to
see before him the real Lily Bart, divested of the trivialities of her
little world, and catching for a moment a note of that eternal harmony of
which her beauty was a part.

"Deuced bold thing to show herself in that get-up; but, gad, there isn't
a break in the lines anywhere, and I suppose she wanted us to know it!"

These words, uttered by that experienced connoisseur, Mr. Ned Van
Alstyne, whose scented white moustache had brushed Selden's shoulder
whenever the parting of the curtains presented any exceptional
opportunity for the study of the female outline, affected their hearer in
an unexpected way. It was not the first time that Selden had heard Lily's
beauty lightly remarked on, and hitherto the tone of the comments had
imperceptibly coloured his view of her. But now it woke only a motion of
indignant contempt.  This was the world she lived in, these were the
standards by which she was fated to be measured! Does one go to Caliban
for a judgment on Miranda?

In the long moment before the curtain fell, he had time to feel the whole
tragedy of her life. It was as though her beauty, thus detached from all
that cheapened and vulgarized it, had held out suppliant hands to him
from the world in which he and she had once met for a moment, and where
he felt an overmastering longing to be with her again.

He was roused by the pressure of ecstatic fingers. "Wasn't she too
beautiful, Lawrence? Don't you like her best in that simple dress? It
makes her look like the real Lily--the Lily I know."

He met Gerty Farish's brimming gaze. "The Lily we know," he corrected;
and his cousin, beaming at the implied understanding, exclaimed joyfully:
"I'll tell her that! She always says you dislike her."

The performance over, Selden's first impulse was to seek Miss Bart.
During the interlude of music which succeeded the TABLEAUX, the actors
had seated themselves here and there in the audience, diversifying its
conventional appearance by the varied picturesqueness of their dress.
Lily, however, was not among them, and her absence served to protract the
effect she had produced on Selden: it would have broken the spell to see
her too soon in the surroundings from which accident had so happily
detached her. They had not met since the day of the Van Osburgh wedding,
and on his side the avoidance had been intentional.  Tonight, however, he
knew that, sooner or later, he should find himself at her side; and
though he let the dispersing crowd drift him whither it would, without
making an immediate effort to reach her, his procrastination was not due
to any lingering resistance, but to the desire to luxuriate a moment in
the sense of complete surrender.

Lily had not an instant's doubt as to the meaning of the murmur greeting
her appearance. No other tableau had been received with that precise note
of approval: it had obviously been called forth by herself, and not by
the picture she impersonated. She had feared at the last moment that she
was risking too much in dispensing with the advantages of a more
sumptuous setting, and the completeness of her triumph gave her an
intoxicating sense of recovered power. Not caring to diminish the
impression she had produced, she held herself aloof from the audience
till the movement of dispersal before supper, and thus had a second
opportunity of showing herself to advantage, as the throng poured slowly
into the empty drawing-room where she was standing.

She was soon the centre of a group which increased and renewed itself as
the circulation became general, and the individual comments on her
success were a delightful prolongation of the collective applause. At
such moments she lost something of her natural fastidiousness, and cared
less for the quality of the admiration received than for its quantity.
Differences of personality were merged in a warm atmosphere of praise, in
which her beauty expanded like a flower in sunlight; and if Selden had
approached a moment or two sooner he would have seen her turning on Ned
Van Alstyne and George Dorset the look he had dreamed of capturing for
himself.

Fortune willed, however, that the hurried approach of Mrs. Fisher, as
whose aide-de-camp Van Alstyne was acting, should break up the group
before Selden reached the threshold of the room. One or two of the men
wandered off in search of their partners for supper, and the others,
noticing Selden's approach, gave way to him in accordance with the tacit
freemasonry of the ball-room. Lily was therefore standing alone when he
reached her; and finding the expected look in her eye, he had the
satisfaction of supposing he had kindled it. The look did indeed deepen
as it rested on him, for even in that moment of self-intoxication Lily
felt the quicker beat of life that his nearness always produced.  She
read, too, in his answering gaze the delicious confirmation of her
triumph, and for the moment it seemed to her that it was for him only she
cared to be beautiful.

Selden had given her his arm without speaking. She took it in silence,
and they moved away, not toward the supper-room, but against the tide
which was setting thither. The faces about her flowed by like the
streaming images of sleep: she hardly noticed where Selden was leading
her, till they passed through a glass doorway at the end of the long
suite of rooms and stood suddenly in the fragrant hush of a garden.
Gravel grated beneath their feet, and about them was the transparent
dimness of a midsummer night. Hanging lights made emerald caverns in the
depths of foliage, and whitened the spray of a fountain falling among
lilies. The magic place was deserted: there was no sound but the splash
of the water on the lily-pads, and a distant drift of music that might
have been blown across a sleeping lake.

Selden and Lily stood still, accepting the unreality of the scene as a
part of their own dream-like sensations. It would not have surprised them
to feel a summer breeze on their faces, or to see the lights among the
boughs reduplicated in the arch of a starry sky. The strange solitude
about them was no stranger than the sweetness of being alone in it
together. At length Lily withdrew her hand, and moved away a step, so
that her white-robed slimness was outlined against the dusk of the
branches. Selden followed her, and still without speaking they seated
themselves on a bench beside the fountain.

Suddenly she raised her eyes with the beseeching earnestness of a child.
"You never speak to me--you think hard things of me," she murmured.

"I think of you at any rate, God knows!" he said.

"Then why do we never see each other? Why can't we be friends?  You
promised once to help me," she continued in the same tone, as though the
words were drawn from her unwillingly.

"The only way I can help you is by loving you," Selden said in a low
voice.

She made no reply, but her face turned to him with the soft motion of a
flower. His own met it slowly, and their lips touched. She drew back and
rose from her seat. Selden rose too, and they stood facing each other.
Suddenly she caught his hand and pressed it a moment against her cheek.

"Ah, love me, love me--but don't tell me so!" she sighed with her eyes in
his; and before he could speak she had turned and slipped through the
arch of boughs, disappearing in the brightness of the room beyond.

Selden stood where she had left him. He knew too well the transiency of
exquisite moments to attempt to follow her; but presently he reentered
the house and made his way through the deserted rooms to the door. A few
sumptuously-cloaked ladies were already gathered in the marble vestibule,
and in the coat-room he found Van Alstyne and Gus Trenor.

The former, at Selden's approach, paused in the careful selection of a
cigar from one of the silver boxes invitingly set out near the door.

"Hallo, Selden, going too? You're an Epicurean like myself, I see: you
don't want to see all those goddesses gobbling terrapin.  Gad, what a
show of good-looking women; but not one of 'em could touch that little
cousin of mine. Talk of jewels--what's a woman want with jewels when
she's got herself to show? The trouble is that all these fal-bals they
wear cover up their figures when they've got 'em. I never knew till
tonight what an outline Lily has."

"It's not her fault if everybody don't know it now," growled Trenor,
flushed with the struggle of getting into his fur-lined coat. "Damned bad
taste, I call it--no, no cigar for me. You can't tell what you're smoking
in one of these new houses--likely as not the CHEF buys the cigars. Stay
for supper? Not if I know it! When people crowd their rooms so that you
can't get near any one you want to speak to, I'd as soon sup in the
elevated at the rush hour. My wife was dead right to stay away: she says
life's too short to spend it in breaking in new people."



Chapter 13

Lily woke from happy dreams to find two notes at her bedside.

One was from Mrs. Trenor, who announced that she was coming to town that
afternoon for a flying visit, and hoped Miss Bart would be able to dine
with her. The other was from Selden. He wrote briefly that an important
case called him to Albany, whence he would be unable to return till the
evening, and asked Lily to let him know at what hour on the following day
she would see him.

Lily, leaning back among her pillows, gazed musingly at his letter. The
scene in the Brys' conservatory had been like a part of her dreams; she
had not expected to wake to such evidence of its reality. Her first
movement was one of annoyance: this unforeseen act of Selden's added
another complication to life. It was so unlike him to yield to such an
irrational impulse! Did he really mean to ask her to marry him? She had
once shown him the impossibility of such a hope, and his subsequent
behaviour seemed to prove that he had accepted the situation with a
reasonableness somewhat mortifying to her vanity. It was all the more
agreeable to find that this reasonableness was maintained only at the
cost of not seeing her; but, though nothing in life was as sweet as the
sense of her power over him, she saw the danger of allowing the episode
of the previous night to have a sequel. Since she could not marry him, it
would be kinder to him, as well as easier for herself, to write a line
amicably evading his request to see her: he was not the man to mistake
such a hint, and when next they met it would be on their usual friendly
footing.

Lily sprang out of bed, and went straight to her desk. She wanted to
write at once, while she could trust to the strength of her resolve.  She
was still languid from her brief sleep and the exhilaration of the
evening, and the sight of Selden's writing brought back the culminating
moment of her triumph: the moment when she had read in his eyes that no
philosophy was proof against her power. It would be pleasant to have that
sensation again . . . no one else could give it to her in its fulness;
and she could not bear to mar her mood of luxurious retrospection by an
act of definite refusal. She took up her pen and wrote hastily: "TOMORROW
AT FOUR;" murmuring to herself, as she slipped the sheet into its
envelope: "I can easily put him off when tomorrow comes."



Judy Trenor's summons was very welcome to Lily. It was the first time she
had received a direct communication from Bellomont since the close of her
last visit there, and she was still visited by the dread of having
incurred Judy's displeasure. But this characteristic command seemed to
reestablish their former relations; and Lily smiled at the thought that
her friend had probably summoned her in order to hear about the Brys'
entertainment. Mrs. Trenor had absented herself from the feast, perhaps
for the reason so frankly enunciated by her husband, perhaps because, as
Mrs. Fisher somewhat differently put it, she "couldn't bear new people
when she hadn't discovered them herself." At any rate, though she
remained haughtily at Bellomont, Lily suspected in her a devouring
eagerness to hear of what she had missed, and to learn exactly in what
measure Mrs. Wellington Bry had surpassed all previous competitors for
social recognition. Lily was quite ready to gratify this curiosity, but
it happened that she was dining out. She determined, however, to see Mrs.
Trenor for a few moments, and ringing for her maid she despatched a
telegram to say that she would be with her friend that evening at ten.

She was dining with Mrs. Fisher, who had gathered at an informal feast a
few of the performers of the previous evening. There was to be plantation
music in the studio after dinner--for Mrs. Fisher, despairing of the
republic, had taken up modelling, and annexed to her small crowded house
a spacious apartment, which, whatever its uses in her hours of plastic
inspiration, served at other times for the exercise of an indefatigable
hospitality. Lily was reluctant to leave, for the dinner was amusing, and
she would have liked to lounge over a cigarette and hear a few songs; but
she could not break her engagement with Judy, and shortly after ten she
asked her hostess to ring for a hansom, and drove up Fifth Avenue to the
Trenors'.

She waited long enough on the doorstep to wonder that Judy's presence in
town was not signalized by a greater promptness in admitting her; and her
surprise was increased when, instead of the expected footman, pushing his
shoulders into a tardy coat, a shabby care-taking person in calico let
her into the shrouded hall. Trenor, however, appeared at once on the
threshold of the drawing-room, welcoming her with unusual volubility
while he relieved her of her cloak and drew her into the room.

"Come along to the den; it's the only comfortable place in the house.
Doesn't this room look as if it was waiting for the body to be brought
down? Can't see why Judy keeps the house wrapped up in this awful
slippery white stuff--it's enough to give a fellow pneumonia to walk
through these rooms on a cold day. You look a little pinched yourself, by
the way: it's rather a sharp night out. I noticed it walking up from the
club. Come along, and I'll give you a nip of brandy, and you can toast
yourself over the fire and try some of my new Egyptians--that little
Turkish chap at the Embassy put me on to a brand that I want you to try,
and if you like 'em I'll get out a lot for you: they don't have 'em here
yet, but I'll cable."

He led her through the house to the large room at the back, where Mrs.
Trenor usually sat, and where, even in her absence, there was an air of
occupancy. Here, as usual, were flowers, newspapers, a littered
writing-table, and a general aspect of lamp-lit familiarity, so that it
was a surprise not to see Judy's energetic figure start up from the
arm-chair near the fire.

It was apparently Trenor himself who had been occupying the seat in
question, for it was overhung by a cloud of cigar smoke, and near it
stood one of those intricate folding tables which British ingenuity has
devised to facilitate the circulation of tobacco and spirits. The sight
of such appliances in a drawing-room was not unusual in Lily's set, where
smoking and drinking were unrestricted by considerations of time and
place, and her first movement was to help herself to one of the
cigarettes recommended by Trenor, while she checked his loquacity by
asking, with a surprised glance: "Where's Judy?"

Trenor, a little heated by his unusual flow of words, and perhaps by
prolonged propinquity with the decanters, was bending over the latter to
decipher their silver labels.

"Here, now, Lily, just a drop of cognac in a little fizzy water--you do
look pinched, you know: I swear the end of your nose is red. I'll take
another glass to keep you company--Judy?--Why, you see, Judy's got a
devil of a head ache--quite knocked out with it, poor thing--she asked me
to explain--make it all right, you know--Do come up to the fire, though;
you look dead-beat, really. Now do let me make you comfortable, there's a
good girl."

He had taken her hand, half-banteringly, and was drawing her toward a low
seat by the hearth; but she stopped and freed herself quietly.

"Do you mean to say that Judy's not well enough to see me?  Doesn't she
want me to go upstairs?"

Trenor drained the glass he had filled for himself, and paused to set it
down before he answered.

"Why, no--the fact is, she's not up to seeing anybody. It came on
suddenly, you know, and she asked me to tell you how awfully sorry she
was--if she'd known where you were dining she'd have sent you word."

"She did know where I was dining; I mentioned it in my telegram.  But it
doesn't matter, of course. I suppose if she's so poorly she won't go back
to Bellomont in the morning, and I can come and see her then."

"Yes: exactly--that's capital. I'll tell her you'll pop in tomorrow
morning. And now do sit down a minute, there's a dear, and let's have a
nice quiet jaw together. You won't take a drop, just for sociability?
Tell me what you think of that cigarette.  Why, don't you like it? What
are you chucking it away for?"

"I am chucking it away because I must go, if you'll have the goodness to
call a cab for me," Lily returned with a smile.

She did not like Trenor's unusual excitability, with its too evident
explanation, and the thought of being alone with him, with her friend out
of reach upstairs, at the other end of the great empty house, did not
conduce to a desire to prolong their TETE-A-TETE.

But Trenor, with a promptness which did not escape her, had moved between
herself and the door.

"Why must you go, I should like to know? If Judy'd been here you'd have
sat gossiping till all hours--and you can't even give me five minutes!
It's always the same story. Last night I couldn't get near you--I went to
that damned vulgar party just to see you, and there was everybody talking
about you, and asking me if I'd ever seen anything so stunning, and when
I tried to come up and say a word, you never took any notice, but just
went on laughing and joking with a lot of asses who only wanted to be
able to swagger about afterward, and look knowing when you were
mentioned."

He paused, flushed by his diatribe, and fixing on her a look in which
resentment was the ingredient she least disliked. But she had regained
her presence of mind, and stood composedly in the middle of the room,
while her slight smile seemed to put an ever increasing distance between
herself and Trenor.

Across it she said: "Don't be absurd, Gus. It's past eleven, and I must
really ask you to ring for a cab."

He remained immovable, with the lowering forehead she had grown to detest.

"And supposing I won't ring for one--what'll you do then?"

"I shall go upstairs to Judy if you force me to disturb her."

Trenor drew a step nearer and laid his hand on her arm. "Look here, Lily:
won't you give me five minutes of your own accord?"

"Not tonight, Gus: you----"

"Very good, then: I'll take 'em. And as many more as I want." He had
squared himself on the threshold, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
He nodded toward the chair on the hearth.

"Go and sit down there, please: I've got a word to say to you."

Lily's quick temper was getting the better of her fears. She drew herself
up and moved toward the door.

"If you have anything to say to me, you must say it another time.  I
shall go up to Judy unless you call a cab for me at once."

He burst into a laugh. "Go upstairs and welcome, my dear; but you won't
find Judy. She ain't there."

Lily cast a startled look upon him. "Do you mean that Judy is not in the
house--not in town?" she exclaimed.

"That's just what I do mean," returned Trenor, his bluster sinking to
sullenness under her look.

"Nonsense--I don't believe you. I am going upstairs," she said
impatiently.

He drew unexpectedly aside, letting her reach the threshold unimpeded.

"Go up and welcome; but my wife is at Bellomont."

But Lily had a flash of reassurance. "If she hadn't come she would have
sent me word----"

"She did; she telephoned me this afternoon to let you know."

"I received no message."

"I didn't send any."

The two measured each other for a moment, but Lily still saw her opponent
through a blur of scorn that made all other considerations indistinct.

"I can't imagine your object in playing such a stupid trick on me; but if
you have fully gratified your peculiar sense of humour I must again ask
you to send for a cab."

It was the wrong note, and she knew it as she spoke. To be stung by irony
it is not necessary to understand it, and the angry streaks on Trenor's
face might have been raised by an actual lash.

"Look here, Lily, don't take that high and mighty tone with me." He had
again moved toward the door, and in her instinctive shrinking from him
she let him regain command of the threshold.  "I DID play a trick on you;
I own up to it; but if you think I'm ashamed you're mistaken. Lord knows
I've been patient enough--I've hung round and looked like an ass.  And
all the while you were letting a lot of other fellows make up to
you . . . letting 'em make fun of me, I daresay . . . I'm not sharp, and
can't dress my friends up to look funny, as you do . . . but I can tell
when it's being done to me . . . I can tell fast enough when I'm made a
fool of . . ."

"Ah, I shouldn't have thought that!" flashed from Lily; but her laugh
dropped to silence under his look.

"No; you wouldn't have thought it; but you'll know better now. That's
what you're here for tonight. I've been waiting for a quiet time to talk
things over, and now I've got it I mean to make you hear me out."

His first rush of inarticulate resentment had been followed by a
steadiness and concentration of tone more disconcerting to Lily than the
excitement preceding it. For a moment her presence of mind forsook her.
She had more than once been in situations where a quick sword-play of wit
had been needful to cover her retreat; but her frightened heart-throbs
told her that here such skill would not avail.

To gain time she repeated: "I don't understand what you want."

Trenor had pushed a chair between herself and the door. He threw himself
in it, and leaned back, looking up at her.

"I'll tell you what I want: I want to know just where you and I stand.
Hang it, the man who pays for the dinner is generally allowed to have a
seat at table."

She flamed with anger and abasement, and the sickening need of having to
conciliate where she longed to humble.

"I don't know what you mean--but you must see, Gus, that I can't stay
here talking to you at this hour----"

"Gad, you go to men's houses fast enough in broad day light--strikes me
you're not always so deuced careful of appearances."

The brutality of the thrust gave her the sense of dizziness that follows
on a physical blow. Rosedale had spoken then--this was the way men talked
of her--She felt suddenly weak and defenceless: there was a throb of
self-pity in her throat. But all the while another self was sharpening
her to vigilance, whispering the terrified warning that every word and
gesture must be measured.

"If you have brought me here to say insulting things----" she began.

Trenor laughed. "Don't talk stage-rot. I don't want to insult you. But a
man's got his feelings--and you've played with mine too long. I didn't
begin this business--kept out of the way, and left the track clear for
the other chaps, till you rummaged me out and set to work to make an ass
of me--and an easy job you had of it, too. That's the trouble--it was too
easy for you--you got reckless--thought you could turn me inside out, and
chuck me in the gutter like an empty purse.  But, by gad, that ain't
playing fair: that's dodging the rules of the game. Of course I know now
what you wanted--it wasn't my beautiful eyes you were after--but I tell
you what, Miss Lily, you've got to pay up for making me think so----"

He rose, squaring his shoulders aggressively, and stepped toward her with
a reddening brow; but she held her footing, though every nerve tore at
her to retreat as he advanced.

"Pay up?" she faltered. "Do you mean that I owe you money?"

He laughed again. "Oh, I'm not asking for payment in kind. But there's
such a thing as fair play--and interest on one's money--and hang me if
I've had as much as a look from you----"

"Your money? What have I to do with your money? You advised me how to
invest mine . . . you must have seen I knew nothing of business . . .
you told me it was all right----"

"It WAS all right--it is, Lily: you're welcome to all of it, and ten
times more. I'm only asking for a word of thanks from you." He was closer
still, with a hand that grew formidable; and the frightened self in her
was dragging the other down.

"I HAVE thanked you; I've shown I was grateful. What more have you done
than any friend might do, or any one accept from a friend?"

Trenor caught her up with a sneer. "I don't doubt you've accepted as much
before--and chucked the other chaps as you'd like to chuck me. I don't
care how you settled your score with them--if you fooled 'em I'm that
much to the good. Don't stare at me like that--I know I'm not talking the
way a man is supposed to talk to a girl--but, hang it, if you don't like
it you can stop me quick enough--you know I'm mad about you--damn the
money, there's plenty more of it--if THAT bothers you . . .  I was a
brute, Lily--Lily!--just look at me----"

Over and over her the sea of humiliation broke--wave crashing on wave so
close that the moral shame was one with the physical dread. It seemed to
her that self-esteem would have made her invulnerable--that it was her
own dishonour which put a fearful solitude about her.

His touch was a shock to her drowning consciousness. She drew back from
him with a desperate assumption of scorn.

"I've told you I don't understand--but if I owe you money you shall be
paid----"

Trenor's face darkened to rage: her recoil of abhorrence had called out
the primitive man.

"Ah--you'll borrow from Selden or Rosedale--and take your chances of
fooling them as you've fooled me! Unless--unless you've settled your
other scores already--and I'm the only one left out in the cold!"

She stood silent, frozen to her place. The words--the words were worse
than the touch! Her heart was beating all over her body--in her throat,
her limbs, her helpless useless hands. Her eyes travelled despairingly
about the room--they lit on the bell, and she remembered that help was in
call. Yes, but scandal with it--a hideous mustering of tongues. No, she
must fight her way out alone. It was enough that the servants knew her to
be in the house with Trenor--there must be nothing to excite conjecture
in her way of leaving it.

She raised her head, and achieved a last clear look at him.

"I am here alone with you," she said. "What more have you to say?"

To her surprise, Trenor answered the look with a speechless stare. With
his last gust of words the flame had died out, leaving him chill and
humbled. It was as though a cold air had dispersed the fumes of his
libations, and the situation loomed before him black and naked as the
ruins of a fire. Old habits, old restraints, the hand of inherited order,
plucked back the bewildered mind which passion had jolted from its ruts.
Trenor's eye had the haggard look of the sleep-walker waked on a deathly
ledge.

"Go home! Go away from here"----he stammered, and turning his back on her
walked toward the hearth.

The sharp release from her fears restored Lily to immediate lucidity.
The collapse of Trenor's will left her in control, and she heard herself,
in a voice that was her own yet outside herself, bidding him ring for the
servant, bidding him give the order for a hansom, directing him to put
her in it when it came. Whence the strength came to her she knew not; but
an insistent voice warned her that she must leave the house openly, and
nerved her, in the hall before the hovering care taker, to exchange light
words with Trenor, and charge him with the usual messages for Judy, while
all the while she shook with inward loathing. On the doorstep, with the
street before her, she felt a mad throb of liberation, intoxicating as
the prisoner's first draught of free air; but the clearness of brain
continued, and she noted the mute aspect of Fifth Avenue, guessed at the
lateness of the hour, and even observed a man's figure--was there
something half-familiar in its outline?--which, as she entered the
hansom, turned from the opposite corner and vanished in the obscurity of
the side street.

But with the turn of the wheels reaction came, and shuddering darkness
closed on her. "I can't think--I can't think," she moaned, and leaned her
head against the rattling side of the cab.  She seemed a stranger to
herself, or rather there were two selves in her, the one she had always
known, and a new abhorrent being to which it found itself chained. She
had once picked up, in a house where she was staying, a translation of
the EUMENIDES, and her imagination had been seized by the high terror of
the scene where Orestes, in the cave of the oracle, finds his implacable
huntresses asleep, and snatches an hour's repose.  Yes, the Furies might
sometimes sleep, but they were there, always there in the dark corners,
and now they were awake and the iron clang of their wings was in her
brain . . . She opened her eyes and saw the streets passing--the familiar
alien streets. All she looked on was the same and yet changed. There was
a great gulf fixed between today and yesterday. Everything in the past
seemed simple, natural, full of daylight--and she was alone in a place of
darkness and pollution.--Alone! It was the loneliness that frightened
her. Her eyes fell on an illuminated clock at a street corner, and she
saw that the hands marked the half hour after eleven. Only half-past
eleven--there were hours and hours left of the night! And she must spend
them alone, shuddering sleepless on her bed. Her soft nature recoiled
from this ordeal, which had none of the stimulus of conflict to goad her
through it. Oh, the slow cold drip of the minutes on her head! She had a
vision of herself lying on the black walnut bed--and the darkness would
frighten her, and if she left the light burning the dreary details of the
room would brand themselves forever on her brain.  She had always hated
her room at Mrs. Peniston's--its ugliness, its impersonality, the fact
that nothing in it was really hers.  To a torn heart uncomforted by human
nearness a room may open almost human arms, and the being to whom no four
walls mean more than any others, is, at such hours, expatriate everywhere.

Lily had no heart to lean on. Her relation with her aunt was as
superficial as that of chance lodgers who pass on the stairs. But even
had the two been in closer contact, it was impossible to think of Mrs.
Peniston's mind as offering shelter or comprehension to such misery as
Lily's. As the pain that can be told is but half a pain, so the pity that
questions has little healing in its touch. What Lily craved was the
darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but
compassion holding its breath.

She started up and looked forth on the passing streets.  Gerty!--they
were nearing Gerty's corner. If only she could reach there before this
labouring anguish burst from her breast to her lips--if only she could
feel the hold of Gerty's arms while she shook in the ague-fit of fear
that was coming upon her! She pushed up the door in the roof and called
the address to the driver. It was not so late--Gerty might still be
waking. And even if she were not, the sound of the bell would penetrate
every recess of her tiny apartment, and rouse her to answer her friend's
call.



Chapter 14

Gerty Farish, the morning after the Wellington Brys' entertainment, woke
from dreams as happy as Lily's. If they were less vivid in hue, more
subdued to the half-tints of her personality and her experience, they
were for that very reason better suited to her mental vision. Such
flashes of joy as Lily moved in would have blinded Miss Farish, who was
accustomed, in the way of happiness, to such scant light as shone through
the cracks of other people's lives.

Now she was the centre of a little illumination of her own: a mild but
unmistakable beam, compounded of Lawrence Selden's growing kindness to
herself and the discovery that he extended his liking to Lily Bart. If
these two factors seem incompatible to the student of feminine
psychology, it must be remembered that Gerty had always been a parasite
in the moral order, living on the crumbs of other tables, and content to
look through the window at the banquet spread for her friends. Now that
she was enjoying a little private feast of her own, it would have seemed
incredibly selfish not to lay a plate for a friend; and there was no one
with whom she would rather have shared her enjoyment than Miss Bart.

As to the nature of Selden's growing kindness, Gerty would no more have
dared to define it than she would have tried to learn a butterfly's
colours by knocking the dust from its wings. To seize on the wonder would
be to brush off its bloom, and perhaps see it fade and stiffen in her
hand: better the sense of beauty palpitating out of reach, while she held
her breath and watched where it would alight. Yet Selden's manner at the
Brys' had brought the flutter of wings so close that they seemed to be
beating in her own heart. She had never seen him so alert, so responsive,
so attentive to what she had to say. His habitual manner had an
absent-minded kindliness which she accepted, and was grateful for, as the
liveliest sentiment her presence was likely to inspire; but she was quick
to feel in him a change implying that for once she could give pleasure as
well as receive it.

And it was so delightful that this higher degree of sympathy should be
reached through their interest in Lily Bart!

Gerty's affection for her friend--a sentiment that had learned to keep
itself alive on the scantiest diet--had grown to active adoration since
Lily's restless curiosity had drawn her into the circle of Miss Farish's
work. Lily's taste of beneficence had wakened in her a momentary appetite
for well-doing. Her visit to the Girls' Club had first brought her in
contact with the dramatic contrasts of life. She had always accepted with
philosophic calm the fact that such existences as hers were pedestalled
on foundations of obscure humanity. The dreary limbo of dinginess lay all
around and beneath that little illuminated circle in which life reached
its finest efflorescence, as the mud and sleet of a winter night enclose
a hot-house filled with tropical flowers. All this was in the natural
order of things, and the orchid basking in its artificially created
atmosphere could round the delicate curves of its petals undisturbed by
the ice on the panes.

But it is one thing to live comfortably with the abstract conception of
poverty, another to be brought in contact with its human embodiments.
Lily had never conceived of these victims of fate otherwise than in the
mass. That the mass was composed of individual lives, innumerable
separate centres of sensation, with her own eager reachings for pleasure,
her own fierce revulsions from pain--that some of these bundles of
feeling were clothed in shapes not so unlike her own, with eyes meant to
look on gladness, and young lips shaped for love--this discovery gave
Lily one of those sudden shocks of pity that sometimes decentralize a
life. Lily's nature was incapable of such renewal: she could feel other
demands only through her own, and no pain was long vivid which did not
press on an answering nerve. But for the moment she was drawn out of
herself by the interest of her direct relation with a world so unlike her
own. She had supplemented her first gift by personal assistance to one or
two of Miss Farish's most appealing subjects, and the admiration and
interest her presence excited among the tired workers at the club
ministered in a new form to her insatiable desire to please.

Gerty Farish was not a close enough reader of character to disentangle
the mixed threads of which Lily's philanthropy was woven. She supposed
her beautiful friend to be actuated by the same motive as herself--that
sharpening of the moral vision which makes all human suffering so near
and insistent that the other aspects of life fade into remoteness.  Gerty
lived by such simple formulas that she did not hesitate to class her
friend's state with the emotional "change of heart" to which her dealings
with the poor had accustomed her; and she rejoiced in the thought that
she had been the humble instrument of this renewal. Now she had an answer
to all criticisms of Lily's conduct: as she had said, she knew "the real
Lily," and the discovery that Selden shared her knowledge raised her
placid acceptance of life to a dazzled sense of its possibilities--a
sense farther enlarged, in the course of the afternoon, by the receipt of
a telegram from Selden asking if he might dine with her that evening.

While Gerty was lost in the happy bustle which this announcement produced
in her small household, Selden was at one with her in thinking with
intensity of Lily Bart. The case which had called him to Albany was not
complicated enough to absorb all his attention, and he had the
professional faculty of keeping a part of his mind free when its services
were not needed. This part--which at the moment seemed dangerously like
the whole--was filled to the brim with the sensations of the previous
evening.  Selden understood the symptoms: he recognized the fact that he
was paying up, as there had always been a chance of his having to pay up,
for the voluntary exclusions of his past. He had meant to keep free from
permanent ties, not from any poverty of feeling, but because, in a
different way, he was, as much as Lily, the victim of his environment.
There had been a germ of truth in his declaration to Gerty Farish that he
had never wanted to marry a "nice" girl: the adjective connoting, in his
cousin's vocabulary, certain utilitarian qualities which are apt to
preclude the luxury of charm.  Now it had been Selden's fate to have a
charming mother: her graceful portrait, all smiles and Cashmere, still
emitted a faded scent of the undefinable quality. His father was the kind
of man who delights in a charming woman: who quotes her, stimulates her,
and keeps her perennially charming. Neither one of the couple cared for
money, but their disdain of it took the form of always spending a little
more than was prudent. If their house was shabby, it was exquisitely
kept; if there were good books on the shelves there were also good dishes
on the table. Selden senior had an eye for a picture, his wife an
understanding of old lace; and both were so conscious of restraint and
discrimination in buying that they never quite knew how it was that the
bills mounted up.

Though many of Selden's friends would have called his parents poor, he
had grown up in an atmosphere where restricted means were felt only as a
check on aimless profusion: where the few possessions were so good that
their rarity gave them a merited relief, and abstinence was combined with
elegance in a way exemplified by Mrs. Selden's knack of wearing her old
velvet as if it were new. A man has the advantage of being delivered
early from the home point of view, and before Selden left college he had
learned that there are as many different ways of going without money as
of spending it. Unfortunately, he found no way as agreeable as that
practised at home; and his views of womankind in especial were tinged by
the remembrance of the one woman who had given him his sense of "values."
It was from her that he inherited his detachment from the sumptuary side
of life: the stoic's carelessness of material things, combined with the
Epicurean's pleasure in them. Life shorn of either feeling appeared to
him a diminished thing; and nowhere was the blending of the two
ingredients so essential as in the character of a pretty woman.

It had always seemed to Selden that experience offered a great deal
besides the sentimental adventure, yet he could vividly conceive of a
love which should broaden and deepen till it became the central fact of
life. What he could not accept, in his own case, was the makeshift
alternative of a relation that should be less than this: that should
leave some portions of his nature unsatisfied, while it put an undue
strain on others. He would not, in other words, yield to the growth of an
affection which might appeal to pity yet leave the understanding
untouched: sympathy should no more delude him than a trick of the eyes,
the grace of helplessness than a curve of the cheek.

But now--that little BUT passed like a sponge over all his vows.  His
reasoned-out resistances seemed for the moment so much less important
than the question as to when Lily would receive his note! He yielded
himself to the charm of trivial preoccupations, wondering at what hour
her reply would be sent, with what words it would begin. As to its import
he had no doubt--he was as sure of her surrender as of his own.  And so
he had leisure to muse on all its exquisite details, as a hard worker, on
a holiday morning, might lie still and watch the beam of light travel
gradually across his room. But if the new light dazzled, it did not blind
him. He could still discern the outline of facts, though his own relation
to them had changed. He was no less conscious than before of what was
said of Lily Bart, but he could separate the woman he knew from the
vulgar estimate of her.  His mind turned to Gerty Farish's words, and the
wisdom of the world seemed a groping thing beside the insight of
innocence.  BLESSED ARE THE PURE IN HEART, FOR THEY SHALL SEE GOD--even
the hidden god in their neighbour's breast! Selden was in the state of
impassioned self-absorption that the first surrender to love produces.
His craving was for the companionship of one whose point of view should
justify his own, who should confirm, by deliberate observation, the truth
to which his intuitions had leaped. He could not wait for the midday
recess, but seized a moment's leisure in court to scribble his telegram
to Gerty Farish.

Reaching town, he was driven direct to his club, where he hoped a note
from Miss Bart might await him. But his box contained only a line of
rapturous assent from Gerty, and he was turning away disappointed when he
was hailed by a voice from the smoking room.

"Hallo, Lawrence! Dining here? Take a bite with me--I've ordered a
canvas-back."

He discovered Trenor, in his day clothes, sitting, with a tall glass at
his elbow, behind the folds of a sporting journal.

Selden thanked him, but pleaded an engagement.

"Hang it, I believe every man in town has an engagement tonight.  I shall
have the club to myself. You know how I'm living this winter, rattling
round in that empty house. My wife meant to come to town today, but she's
put it off again, and how is a fellow to dine alone in a room with the
looking-glasses covered, and nothing but a bottle of Harvey sauce on the
side-board? I say, Lawrence, chuck your engagement and take pity on
me--it gives me the blue devils to dine alone, and there's nobody but
that canting ass Wetherall in the club."

"Sorry, Gus--I can't do it."

As Selden turned away, he noticed the dark flush on Trenor's face, the
unpleasant moisture of his intensely white forehead, the way his jewelled
rings were wedged in the creases of his fat red fingers.  Certainly the
beast was predominating--the beast at the bottom of the glass. And he had
heard this man's name coupled with Lily's! Bah--the thought sickened him;
all the way back to his rooms he was haunted by the sight of Trenor's fat
creased hands----

On his table lay the note: Lily had sent it to his rooms. He knew what
was in it before he broke the seal--a grey seal with BEYOND!  beneath a
flying ship. Ah, he would take her beyond--beyond the ugliness, the
pettiness, the attrition and corrosion of the soul----



Gerty's little sitting-room sparkled with welcome when Selden entered it.
Its modest "effects," compact of enamel paint and ingenuity, spoke to him
in the language just then sweetest to his ear. It is surprising how
little narrow walls and a low ceiling matter, when the roof of the soul
has suddenly been raised. Gerty sparkled too; or at least shone with a
tempered radiance. He had never before noticed that she had
"points"--really, some good fellow might do worse . . . Over the little
dinner (and here, again, the effects were wonderful) he told her she
ought to marry--he was in a mood to pair off the whole world. She had
made the caramel custard with her own hands? It was sinful to keep such
gifts to herself. He reflected with a throb of pride that Lily could trim
her own hats--she had told him so the day of their walk at Bellomont.

He did not speak of Lily till after dinner. During the little repast he
kept the talk on his hostess, who, fluttered at being the centre of
observation, shone as rosy as the candle-shades she had manufactured for
the occasion. Selden evinced an extraordinary interest in her household
arrangements: complimented her on the ingenuity with which she had
utilized every inch of her small quarters, asked how her servant managed
about afternoons out, learned that one may improvise delicious dinners in
a chafing-dish, and uttered thoughtful generalizations on the burden of a
large establishment.

When they were in the sitting-room again, where they fitted as snugly as
bits in a puzzle, and she had brewed the coffee, and poured it into her
grandmother's egg-shell cups, his eye, as he leaned back, basking in the
warm fragrance, lighted on a recent photograph of Miss Bart, and the
desired transition was effected without an effort. The photograph was
well enough--but to catch her as she had looked last night! Gerty agreed
with him--never had she been so radiant. But could photography capture
that light? There had been a new look in her face--something different;
yes, Selden agreed there had been something different.  The coffee was so
exquisite that he asked for a second cup: such a contrast to the watery
stuff at the club! Ah, your poor bachelor with his impersonal club fare,
alternating with the equally impersonal CUISINE of the dinner-party! A
man who lived in lodgings missed the best part of life--he pictured the
flavourless solitude of Trenor's repast, and felt a moment's compassion
for the man . . . But to return to Lily--and again and again he returned,
questioning, conjecturing, leading Gerty on, draining her inmost thoughts
of their stored tenderness for her friend.

At first she poured herself out unstintingly, happy in this perfect
communion of their sympathies. His understanding of Lily helped to
confirm her own belief in her friend. They dwelt together on the fact
that Lily had had no chance. Gerty instanced her generous impulses--her
restlessness and discontent. The fact that her life had never satisfied
her proved that she was made for better things. She might have married
more than once--the conventional rich marriage which she had been taught
to consider the sole end of existence--but when the opportunity came she
had always shrunk from it. Percy Gryce, for instance, had been in love
with her--every one at Bellomont had supposed them to be engaged, and her
dismissal of him was thought inexplicable. This view of the Gryce
incident chimed too well with Selden's mood not to be instantly adopted
by him, with a flash of retrospective contempt for what had once seemed
the obvious solution. If rejection there had been--and he wondered now
that he had ever doubted it!--then he held the key to the secret, and the
hillsides of Bellomont were lit up, not with sunset, but with dawn. It
was he who had wavered and disowned the face of opportunity--and the joy
now warming his breast might have been a familiar inmate if he had
captured it in its first flight.

It was at this point, perhaps, that a joy just trying its wings in
Gerty's heart dropped to earth and lay still. She sat facing Selden,
repeating mechanically: "No, she has never been understood----" and all
the while she herself seemed to be sitting in the centre of a great glare
of comprehension. The little confidential room, where a moment ago their
thoughts had touched elbows like their chairs, grew to unfriendly
vastness, separating her from Selden by all the length of her new vision
of the future--and that future stretched out interminably, with her
lonely figure toiling down it, a mere speck on the solitude.

"She is herself with a few people only; and you are one of them," she
heard Selden saying. And again: "Be good to her, Gerty, won't you?" and:
"She has it in her to become whatever she is believed to be--you'll help
her by believing the best of her?"

The words beat on Gerty's brain like the sound of a language which has
seemed familiar at a distance, but on approaching is found to be
unintelligible. He had come to talk to her of Lily--that was all! There
had been a third at the feast she had spread for him, and that third had
taken her own place. She tried to follow what he was saying, to cling to
her own part in the talk--but it was all as meaningless as the boom of
waves in a drowning head, and she felt, as the drowning may feel, that to
sink would be nothing beside the pain of struggling to keep up.

Selden rose, and she drew a deep breath, feeling that soon she could
yield to the blessed waves.

"Mrs. Fisher's? You say she was dining there? There's music afterward; I
believe I had a card from her." He glanced at the foolish pink-faced
clock that was drumming out this hideous hour. "A quarter past ten? I
might look in there now; the Fisher evenings are amusing. I haven't kept
you up too late, Gerty? You look tired--I've rambled on and bored you."
And in the unwonted overflow of his feelings, he left a cousinly kiss
upon her cheek.



At Mrs. Fisher's, through the cigar-smoke of the studio, a dozen voices
greeted Selden. A song was pending as he entered, and he dropped into a
seat near his hostess, his eyes roaming in search of Miss Bart. But she
was not there, and the discovery gave him a pang out of all proportion to
its seriousness; since the note in his breast-pocket assured him that at
four the next day they would meet. To his impatience it seemed
immeasurably long to wait, and half-ashamed of the impulse, he leaned to
Mrs. Fisher to ask, as the music ceased, if Miss Bart had not dined with
her.

"Lily? She's just gone. She had to run off, I forget where.  Wasn't she
wonderful last night?"

"Who's that? Lily?" asked Jack Stepney, from the depths of a neighbouring
arm-chair. "Really, you know, I'm no prude, but when it comes to a girl
standing there as if she was up at auction--I thought seriously of
speaking to cousin Julia."

"You didn't know Jack had become our social censor?" Mrs. Fisher said to
Selden with a laugh; and Stepney spluttered, amid the general derision:
"But she's a cousin, hang it, and when a man's married--TOWN TALK was
full of her this morning."

"Yes: lively reading that was," said Mr. Ned Van Alstyne, stroking his
moustache to hide the smile behind it. "Buy the dirty sheet? No, of
course not; some fellow showed it to me--but I'd heard the stories
before. When a girl's as good-looking as that she'd better marry; then no
questions are asked. In our imperfectly organized society there is no
provision as yet for the young woman who claims the privileges of
marriage without assuming its obligations."

"Well, I understand Lily is about to assume them in the shape of Mr.
Rosedale," Mrs. Fisher said with a laugh.

"Rosedale--good heavens!" exclaimed Van Alstyne, dropping his eye-glass.
"Stepney, that's your fault for foisting the brute on us."

"Oh, confound it, you know, we don't MARRY Rosedale in our family,"
Stepney languidly protested; but his wife, who sat in oppressive bridal
finery at the other side of the room, quelled him with the judicial
reflection: "In Lily's circumstances it's a mistake to have too high a
standard."

"I hear even Rosedale has been scared by the talk lately," Mrs. Fisher
rejoined; "but the sight of her last night sent him off his head. What do
you think he said to me after her TABLEAU?  'My God, Mrs. Fisher, if I
could get Paul Morpeth to paint her like that, the picture'd appreciate a
hundred per cent in ten years.'"

"By Jove,--but isn't she about somewhere?" exclaimed Van Alstyne,
restoring his glass with an uneasy glance.

"No; she ran off while you were all mixing the punch down stairs.  Where
was she going, by the way? What's on tonight? I hadn't heard of anything."

"Oh, not a party, I think," said an inexperienced young Farish who had
arrived late. "I put her in her cab as I was coming in, and she gave the
driver the Trenors' address."

"The Trenors'?" exclaimed Mrs. Jack Stepney. "Why, the house is
closed--Judy telephoned me from Bellomont this evening."

"Did she? That's queer. I'm sure I'm not mistaken. Well, come now,
Trenor's there, anyhow--I--oh, well--the fact is, I've no head for
numbers," he broke off, admonished by the nudge of an adjoining foot, and
the smile that circled the room.

In its unpleasant light Selden had risen and was shaking hands with his
hostess. The air of the place stifled him, and he wondered why he had
stayed in it so long.

On the doorstep he stood still, remembering a phrase of Lily's: "It seems
to me you spend a good deal of time in the element you disapprove of."

Well--what had brought him there but the quest of her? It was her
element, not his. But he would lift her out of it, take her beyond!  That
BEYOND! on her letter was like a cry for rescue. He knew that Perseus's
task is not done when he has loosed Andromeda's chains, for her limbs are
numb with bondage, and she cannot rise and walk, but clings to him with
dragging arms as he beats back to land with his burden. Well, he had
strength for both--it was her weakness which had put the strength in him.
It was not, alas, a clean rush of waves they had to win through, but a
clogging morass of old associations and habits, and for the moment its
vapours were in his throat. But he would see clearer, breathe freer in
her presence: she was at once the dead weight at his breast and the spar
which should float them to safety. He smiled at the whirl of metaphor
with which he was trying to build up a defence against the influences of
the last hour. It was pitiable that he, who knew the mixed motives on
which social judgments depend, should still feel himself so swayed by
them. How could he lift Lily to a freer vision of life, if his own view
of her was to be coloured by any mind in which he saw her reflected?

The moral oppression had produced a physical craving for air, and he
strode on, opening his lungs to the reverberating coldness of the night.
At the corner of Fifth Avenue Van Alstyne hailed him with an offer of
company.

"Walking? A good thing to blow the smoke out of one's head. Now that
women have taken to tobacco we live in a bath of nicotine.  It would be a
curious thing to study the effect of cigarettes on the relation of the
sexes. Smoke is almost as great a solvent as divorce: both tend to
obscure the moral issue."

Nothing could have been less consonant with Selden's mood than Van
Alstyne's after-dinner aphorisms, but as long as the latter confined
himself to generalities his listener's nerves were in control. Happily
Van Alstyne prided himself on his summing up of social aspects, and with
Selden for audience was eager to show the sureness of his touch.  Mrs.
Fisher lived in an East side street near the Park, and as the two men
walked down Fifth Avenue the new architectural developments of that
versatile thoroughfare invited Van Alstyne's comment.

"That Greiner house, now--a typical rung in the social ladder!  The man
who built it came from a MILIEU where all the dishes are put on the table
at once. His facade is a complete architectural meal; if he had omitted a
style his friends might have thought the money had given out.  Not a bad
purchase for Rosedale, though: attracts attention, and awes the Western
sight-seer. By and bye he'll get out of that phase, and want something
that the crowd will pass and the few pause before.  Especially if he
marries my clever cousin----"

Selden dashed in with the query: "And the Wellington Brys'?  Rather
clever of its kind, don't you think?"

They were just beneath the wide white facade, with its rich restraint of
line, which suggested the clever corseting of a redundant figure.

"That's the next stage: the desire to imply that one has been to Europe,
and has a standard. I'm sure Mrs. Bry thinks her house a copy of the
TRIANON; in America every marble house with gilt furniture is thought to
be a copy of the TRIANON. What a clever chap that architect is,
though--how he takes his client's measure! He has put the whole of Mrs.
Bry in his use of the composite order. Now for the Trenors, you remember,
he chose the Corinthian: exuberant, but based on the best precedent. The
Trenor house is one of his best things--doesn't look like a
banqueting-hall turned inside out. I hear Mrs. Trenor wants to build out
a new ball-room, and that divergence from Gus on that point keeps her at
Bellomont. The dimensions of the Brys' ball-room must rankle: you may be
sure she knows 'em as well as if she'd been there last night with a
yard-measure. Who said she was in town, by the way?  That Farish boy? She
isn't, I know; Mrs. Stepney was right; the house is dark, you see: I
suppose Gus lives in the back."

He had halted opposite the Trenors' corner, and Selden perforce stayed
his steps also. The house loomed obscure and uninhabited; only an oblong
gleam above the door spoke of provisional occupancy.

"They've bought the house at the back: it gives them a hundred and fifty
feet in the side street. There's where the ball-room's to be, with a
gallery connecting it: billiard-room and so on above. I suggested
changing the entrance, and carrying the drawing-room across the whole
Fifth Avenue front; you see the front door corresponds with the
windows----"

The walking-stick which Van Alstyne swung in demonstration dropped to a
startled "Hallo!" as the door opened and two figures were seen
silhouetted against the hall-light. At the same moment a hansom halted at
the curb-stone, and one of the figures floated down to it in a haze of
evening draperies; while the other, black and bulky, remained
persistently projected against the light.

For an immeasurable second the two spectators of the incident were
silent; then the house-door closed, the hansom rolled off, and the whole
scene slipped by as if with the turn of a stereopticon.

Van Alstyne dropped his eye-glass with a low whistle.

"A--hem--nothing of this, eh, Selden? As one of the family, I know I may
count on you--appearances are deceptive--and Fifth Avenue is so
imperfectly lighted----"

"Goodnight," said Selden, turning sharply down the side street without
seeing the other's extended hand.



Alone with her cousin's kiss, Gerty stared upon her thoughts. He had
kissed her before--but not with another woman on his lips. If he had
spared her that she could have drowned quietly, welcoming the dark flood
as it submerged her. But now the flood was shot through with glory, and
it was harder to drown at sunrise than in darkness. Gerty hid her face
from the light, but it pierced to the crannies of her soul. She had been
so contented, life had seemed so simple and sufficient--why had he come
to trouble her with new hopes? And Lily--Lily, her best friend!
Woman-like, she accused the woman.  Perhaps, had it not been for Lily,
her fond imagining might have become truth. Selden had always liked
her--had understood and sympathized with the modest independence of her
life. He, who had the reputation of weighing all things in the nice
balance of fastidious perceptions, had been uncritical and simple in his
view of her: his cleverness had never overawed her because she had felt
at home in his heart. And now she was thrust out, and the door barred
against her by Lily's hand! Lily, for whose admission there she herself
had pleaded! The situation was lighted up by a dreary flash of irony. She
knew Selden--she saw how the force of her faith in Lily must have helped
to dispel his hesitations.  She remembered, too, how Lily had talked of
him--she saw herself bringing the two together, making them known to each
other. On Selden's part, no doubt, the wound inflicted was inconscient;
he had never guessed her foolish secret; but Lily--Lily must have known!
When, in such matters, are a woman's perceptions at fault? And if she
knew, then she had deliberately despoiled her friend, and in mere
wantonness of power, since, even to Gerty's suddenly flaming jealousy, it
seemed incredible that Lily should wish to be Selden's wife. Lily might
be incapable of marrying for money, but she was equally incapable of
living without it, and Selden's eager investigations into the small
economies of house-keeping made him appear to Gerty as tragically duped
as herself.

She remained long in her sitting-room, where the embers were crumbling to
cold grey, and the lamp paled under its gay shade.  Just beneath it stood
the photograph of Lily Bart, looking out imperially on the cheap
gimcracks, the cramped furniture of the little room. Could Selden picture
her in such an interior? Gerty felt the poverty, the insignificance of
her surroundings: she beheld her life as it must appear to Lily. And the
cruelty of Lily's judgments smote upon her memory. She saw that she had
dressed her idol with attributes of her own making. When had Lily ever
really felt, or pitied, or understood?  All she wanted was the taste of
new experiences: she seemed like some cruel creature experimenting in a
laboratory.

The pink-faced clock drummed out another hour, and Gerty rose with a
start. She had an appointment early the next morning with a district
visitor on the East side. She put out her lamp, covered the fire, and
went into her bedroom to undress. In the little glass above her
dressing-table she saw her face reflected against the shadows of the
room, and tears blotted the reflection. What right had she to dream the
dreams of loveliness?  A dull face invited a dull fate. She cried quietly
as she undressed, laying aside her clothes with her habitual precision,
setting everything in order for the next day, when the old life must be
taken up as though there had been no break in its routine.  Her servant
did not come till eight o'clock, and she prepared her own tea-tray and
placed it beside the bed. Then she locked the door of the flat,
extinguished her light and lay down.  But on her bed sleep would not
come, and she lay face to face with the fact that she hated Lily Bart. It
closed with her in the darkness like some formless evil to be blindly
grappled with.  Reason, judgment, renunciation, all the sane daylight
forces, were beaten back in the sharp struggle for self-preservation. She
wanted happiness--wanted it as fiercely and unscrupulously as Lily did,
but without Lily's power of obtaining it.  And in her conscious impotence
she lay shivering, and hated her friend----

A ring at the door-bell caught her to her feet. She struck a light and
stood startled, listening. For a moment her heart beat incoherently, then
she felt the sobering touch of fact, and remembered that such calls were
not unknown in her charitable work. She flung on her dressing-gown to
answer the summons, and unlocking her door, confronted the shining vision
of Lily Bart.

Gerty's first movement was one of revulsion. She shrank back as though
Lily's presence flashed too sudden a light upon her misery. Then she
heard her name in a cry, had a glimpse of her friend's face, and felt
herself caught and clung to.

"Lily--what is it?" she exclaimed.

Miss Bart released her, and stood breathing brokenly, like one who has
gained shelter after a long flight.

"I was so cold--I couldn't go home. Have you a fire?"

Gerty's compassionate instincts, responding to the swift call of habit,
swept aside all her reluctances. Lily was simply some one who needed
help--for what reason, there was no time to pause and conjecture:
disciplined sympathy checked the wonder on Gerty's lips, and made her
draw her friend silently into the sitting-room and seat her by the
darkened hearth.

"There is kindling wood here: the fire will burn in a minute."

She knelt down, and the flame leapt under her rapid hands. It flashed
strangely through the tears which still blurred her eyes, and smote on
the white ruin of Lily's face. The girls looked at each other in silence;
then Lily repeated: "I couldn't go home."

"No--no--you came here, dear! You're cold and tired--sit quiet, and I'll
make you some tea."

Gerty had unconsciously adopted the soothing note of her trade: all
personal feeling was merged in the sense of ministry, and experience had
taught her that the bleeding must be stayed before the wound is probed.

Lily sat quiet, leaning to the fire: the clatter of cups behind her
soothed her as familiar noises hush a child whom silence has kept
wakeful. But when Gerty stood at her side with the tea she pushed it
away, and turned an estranged eye on the familiar room.

"I came here because I couldn't bear to be alone," she said.

Gerty set down the cup and knelt beside her.

"Lily! Something has happened--can't you tell me?"

"I couldn't bear to lie awake in my room till morning. I hate my room at
Aunt Julia's--so I came here----"

She stirred suddenly, broke from her apathy, and clung to Gerty in a
fresh burst of fear.

"Oh, Gerty, the furies . . . you know the noise of their wings--alone, at
night, in the dark? But you don't know--there is nothing to make the dark
dreadful to you----"

The words, flashing back on Gerty's last hours, struck from her a faint
derisive murmur; but Lily, in the blaze of her own misery, was blinded to
everything outside it.

"You'll let me stay? I shan't mind when daylight comes--Is it late? Is
the night nearly over? It must be awful to be sleepless--everything
stands by the bed and stares----"

Miss Farish caught her straying hands. "Lily, look at me!  Something has
happened--an accident? You have been frightened--what has frightened you?
Tell me if you can--a word or two--so that I can help you."

Lily shook her head.

"I am not frightened: that's not the word. Can you imagine looking into
your glass some morning and seeing a disfigurement--some hideous change
that has come to you while you slept? Well, I seem to myself like that--I
can't bear to see myself in my own thoughts--I hate ugliness, you
know--I've always turned from it--but I can't explain to you--you
wouldn't understand."

She lifted her head and her eyes fell on the clock.

"How long the night is! And I know I shan't sleep tomorrow. Some one told
me my father used to lie sleepless and think of horrors.  And he was not
wicked, only unfortunate--and I see now how he must have suffered, lying
alone with his thoughts! But I am bad--a bad girl--all my thoughts are
bad--I have always had bad people about me. Is that any excuse? I thought
I could manage my own life--I was proud--proud! but now I'm on their
level----"

Sobs shook her, and she bowed to them like a tree in a dry storm.

Gerty knelt beside her, waiting, with the patience born of experience,
till this gust of misery should loosen fresh speech.  She had first
imagined some physical shock, some peril of the crowded streets, since
Lily was presumably on her way home from Carry Fisher's; but she now saw
that other nerve-centres were smitten, and her mind trembled back from
conjecture.

Lily's sobs ceased, and she lifted her head.

"There are bad girls in your slums. Tell me--do they ever pick themselves
up? Ever forget, and feel as they did before?"

"Lily! you mustn't speak so--you're dreaming."

"Don't they always go from bad to worse? There's no turning back--your
old self rejects you, and shuts you out."

She rose, stretching her arms as if in utter physical weariness.  "Go to
bed, dear! You work hard and get up early. I'll watch here by the fire,
and you'll leave the light, and your door open. All I want is to feel
that you are near me." She laid both hands on Gerty's shoulders, with a
smile that was like sunrise on a sea strewn with wreckage.

"I can't leave you, Lily. Come and lie on my bed. Your hands are
frozen--you must undress and be made warm." Gerty paused with sudden
compunction. "But Mrs. Peniston--it's past midnight! What will she think?"

"She goes to bed. I have a latch-key. It doesn't matter--I can't go back
there."

"There's no need to: you shall stay here. But you must tell me where you
have been. Listen, Lily--it will help you to speak!" She regained Miss
Bart's hands, and pressed them against her.  "Try to tell me--it will
clear your poor head. Listen--you were dining at Carry Fisher's." Gerty
paused and added with a flash of heroism: "Lawrence Selden went from here
to find you."

At the word, Lily's face melted from locked anguish to the open misery of
a child. Her lips trembled and her gaze widened with tears.

"He went to find me? And I missed him! Oh, Gerty, he tried to help me.
He told me--he warned me long ago--he foresaw that I should grow hateful
to myself!"

The name, as Gerty saw with a clutch at the heart, had loosened the
springs of self-pity in her friend's dry breast, and tear by tear Lily
poured out the measure of her anguish. She had dropped sideways in
Gerty's big arm-chair, her head buried where lately Selden's had leaned,
in a beauty of abandonment that drove home to Gerty's aching senses the
inevitableness of her own defeat.  Ah, it needed no deliberate purpose on
Lily's part to rob her of her dream! To look on that prone loveliness was
to see in it a natural force, to recognize that love and power belong to
such as Lily, as renunciation and service are the lot of those they
despoil. But if Selden's infatuation seemed a fatal necessity, the effect
that his name produced shook Gerty's steadfastness with a last pang. Men
pass through such superhuman loves and outlive them: they are the
probation subduing the heart to human joys. How gladly Gerty would have
welcomed the ministry of healing: how willingly have soothed the sufferer
back to tolerance of life! But Lily's self-betrayal took this last hope
from her. The mortal maid on the shore is helpless against the siren who
loves her prey: such victims are floated back dead from their adventure.

Lily sprang up and caught her with strong hands. "Gerty, you know
him--you understand him--tell me; if I went to him, if I told him
everything--if I said: 'I am bad through and through--I want admiration,
I want excitement, I want money--' yes, MONEY!  That's my shame,
Gerty--and it's known, it's said of me--it's what men think of me--If I
said it all to him--told him the whole story--said plainly: 'I've sunk
lower than the lowest, for I've taken what they take, and not paid as
they pay'--oh, Gerty, you know him, you can speak for him: if I told him
everything would he loathe me? Or would he pity me, and understand me,
and save me from loathing myself?"

Gerty stood cold and passive. She knew the hour of her probation had
come, and her poor heart beat wildly against its destiny. As a dark river
sweeps by under a lightning flash, she saw her chance of happiness surge
past under a flash of temptation. What prevented her from saying: "He is
like other men?" She was not so sure of him, after all! But to do so
would have been like blaspheming her love. She could not put him before
herself in any light but the noblest: she must trust him to the height of
her own passion.

"Yes: I know him; he will help you," she said; and in a moment Lily's
passion was weeping itself out against her breast.

There was but one bed in the little flat, and the two girls lay down on
it side by side when Gerty had unlaced Lily's dress and persuaded her to
put her lips to the warm tea. The light extinguished, they lay still in
the darkness, Gerty shrinking to the outer edge of the narrow couch to
avoid contact with her bed-fellow. Knowing that Lily disliked to be
caressed, she had long ago learned to check her demonstrative impulses
toward her friend. But tonight every fibre in her body shrank from Lily's
nearness: it was torture to listen to her breathing, and feel the sheet
stir with it. As Lily turned, and settled to completer rest, a strand of
her hair swept Gerty's cheek with its fragrance. Everything about her was
warm and soft and scented: even the stains of her grief became her as
rain-drops do the beaten rose. But as Gerty lay with arms drawn down her
side, in the motionless narrowness of an effigy, she felt a stir of sobs
from the breathing warmth beside her, and Lily flung out her hand, groped
for her friend's, and held it fast.

"Hold me, Gerty, hold me, or I shall think of things," she moaned; and
Gerty silently slipped an arm under her, pillowing her head in its hollow
as a mother makes a nest for a tossing child. In the warm hollow Lily lay
still and her breathing grew low and regular. Her hand still clung to
Gerty's as if to ward off evil dreams, but the hold of her fingers
relaxed, her head sank deeper into its shelter, and Gerty felt that she
slept.



Chapter 15

When Lily woke she had the bed to herself, and the winter light was in
the room.

She sat up, bewildered by the strangeness of her surroundings; then
memory returned, and she looked about her with a shiver. In the cold
slant of light reflected from the back wall of a neighbouring building,
she saw her evening dress and opera cloak lying in a tawdry heap on a
chair. Finery laid off is as unappetizing as the remains of a feast, and
it occurred to Lily that, at home, her maid's vigilance had always spared
her the sight of such incongruities. Her body ached with fatigue, and
with the constriction of her attitude in Gerty's bed. All through her
troubled sleep she had been conscious of having no space to toss in, and
the long effort to remain motionless made her feel as if she had spent
her night in a train.

This sense of physical discomfort was the first to assert itself; then
she perceived, beneath it, a corresponding mental prostration, a languor
of horror more insufferable than the first rush of her disgust.  The
thought of having to wake every morning with this weight on her breast
roused her tired mind to fresh effort. She must find some way out of the
slough into which she had stumbled: it was not so much compunction as the
dread of her morning thoughts that pressed on her the need of action. But
she was unutterably tired; it was weariness to think connectedly. She lay
back, looking about the poor slit of a room with a renewal of physical
distaste. The outer air, penned between high buildings, brought no
freshness through the window; steam-heat was beginning to sing in a coil
of dingy pipes, and a smell of cooking penetrated the crack of the door.

The door opened, and Gerty, dressed and hatted, entered with a cup of
tea. Her face looked sallow and swollen in the dreary light, and her dull
hair shaded imperceptibly into the tones of her skin.

She glanced shyly at Lily, asking in an embarrassed tone how she felt;
Lily answered with the same constraint, and raised herself up to drink
the tea.

"I must have been over-tired last night; I think I had a nervous attack
in the carriage," she said, as the drink brought clearness to her
sluggish thoughts.

"You were not well; I am so glad you came here," Gerty returned.

"But how am I to get home? And Aunt Julia--?"

"She knows; I telephoned early, and your maid has brought your things.
But won't you eat something? I scrambled the eggs myself."

Lily could not eat; but the tea strengthened her to rise and dress under
her maid's searching gaze. It was a relief to her that Gerty was obliged
to hasten away: the two kissed silently, but without a trace of the
previous night's emotion.

Lily found Mrs. Peniston in a state of agitation. She had sent for Grace
Stepney and was taking digitalis. Lily breasted the storm of enquiries as
best she could, explaining that she had had an attack of faintness on her
way back from Carry Fisher's; that, fearing she would not have strength
to reach home, she had gone to Miss Farish's instead; but that a quiet
night had restored her, and that she had no need of a doctor.

This was a relief to Mrs. Peniston, who could give herself up to her own
symptoms, and Lily was advised to go and lie down, her aunt's panacea for
all physical and moral disorders. In the solitude of her own room she was
brought back to a sharp contemplation of facts. Her daylight view of them
necessarily differed from the cloudy vision of the night. The winged
furies were now prowling gossips who dropped in on each other for tea.
But her fears seemed the uglier, thus shorn of their vagueness; and
besides, she had to act, not rave. For the first time she forced herself
to reckon up the exact amount of her debt to Trenor; and the result of
this hateful computation was the discovery that she had, in all, received
nine thousand dollars from him. The flimsy pretext on which it had been
given and received shrivelled up in the blaze of her shame: she knew that
not a penny of it was her own, and that to restore her self-respect she
must at once repay the whole amount. The inability thus to solace her
outraged feelings gave her a paralyzing sense of insignificance. She was
realizing for the first time that a woman's dignity may cost more to keep
up than her carriage; and that the maintenance of a moral attribute
should be dependent on dollars and cents, made the world appear a more
sordid place than she had conceived it.

After luncheon, when Grace Stepney's prying eyes had been removed, Lily
asked for a word with her aunt. The two ladies went upstairs to the
sitting-room, where Mrs. Peniston seated herself in her black satin
arm-chair tufted with yellow buttons, beside a bead-work table bearing a
bronze box with a miniature of Beatrice Cenci in the lid. Lily felt for
these objects the same distaste which the prisoner may entertain for the
fittings of the court-room. It was here that her aunt received her rare
confidences, and the pink-eyed smirk of the turbaned Beatrice was
associated in her mind with the gradual fading of the smile from Mrs.
Peniston's lips. That lady's dread of a scene gave her an inexorableness
which the greatest strength of character could not have produced, since
it was independent of all considerations of right or wrong; and knowing
this, Lily seldom ventured to assail it. She had never felt less like
making the attempt than on the present occasion; but she had sought in
vain for any other means of escape from an intolerable situation.

Mrs. Peniston examined her critically. "You're a bad colour, Lily: this
incessant rushing about is beginning to tell on you," she said.

Miss Bart saw an opening. "I don't think it's that, Aunt Julia; I've had
worries," she replied.

"Ah," said Mrs. Peniston, shutting her lips with the snap of a purse
closing against a beggar.

"I'm sorry to bother you with them," Lily continued, "but I really
believe my faintness last night was brought on partly by anxious
thoughts--"

"I should have said Carry Fisher's cook was enough to account for it.
She has a woman who was with Maria Melson in 1891--the spring of the year
we went to Aix--and I remember dining there two days before we sailed,
and feeling SURE the coppers hadn't been scoured."

"I don't think I ate much; I can't eat or sleep." Lily paused, and then
said abruptly: "The fact is, Aunt Julia, I owe some money."

Mrs. Peniston's face clouded perceptibly, but did not express the
astonishment her niece had expected. She was silent, and Lily was forced
to continue: "I have been foolish----"

"No doubt you have: extremely foolish," Mrs. Peniston interposed.  "I
fail to see how any one with your income, and no expenses--not to mention
the handsome presents I've always given you----"

"Oh, you've been most generous, Aunt Julia; I shall never forget your
kindness. But perhaps you don't quite realize the expense a girl is put
to nowadays----"

"I don't realize that YOU are put to any expense except for your clothes
and your railway fares. I expect you to be handsomely dressed; but I paid
Celeste's bill for you last October."

Lily hesitated: her aunt's implacable memory had never been more
inconvenient. "You were as kind as possible; but I have had to get a few
things since----"

"What kind of things? Clothes? How much have you spent? Let me see the
bill--I daresay the woman is swindling you."

"Oh, no, I think not: clothes have grown so frightfully expensive; and
one needs so many different kinds, with country visits, and golf and
skating, and Aiken and Tuxedo----"

"Let me see the bill," Mrs. Peniston repeated.

Lily hesitated again. In the first place, Mme. Celeste had not yet sent
in her account, and secondly, the amount it represented was only a
fraction of the sum that Lily needed.

"She hasn't sent in the bill for my winter things, but I KNOW it's large;
and there are one or two other things; I've been careless and
imprudent--I'm frightened to think of what I owe----"

She raised the troubled loveliness of her face to Mrs. Peniston, vainly
hoping that a sight so moving to the other sex might not be without
effect upon her own. But the effect produced was that of making Mrs.
Peniston shrink back apprehensively.

"Really, Lily, you are old enough to manage your own affairs, and after
frightening me to death by your performance of last night you might at
least choose a better time to worry me with such matters." Mrs. Peniston
glanced at the clock, and swallowed a tablet of digitalis. "If you owe
Celeste another thousand, she may send me her account," she added, as
though to end the discussion at any cost.

"I am very sorry, Aunt Julia; I hate to trouble you at such a time; but I
have really no choice--I ought to have spoken sooner--I owe a great deal
more than a thousand dollars."

"A great deal more? Do you owe two? She must have robbed you!"

"I told you it was not only Celeste. I--there are other bills--more
pressing--that must be settled."

"What on earth have you been buying? Jewelry? You must have gone off your
head," said Mrs. Peniston with asperity. "But if you have run into debt,
you must suffer the consequences, and put aside your monthly income till
your bills are paid. If you stay quietly here until next spring, instead
of racing about all over the country, you will have no expenses at all,
and surely in four or five months you can settle the rest of your bills
if I pay the dress-maker now."

Lily was again silent. She knew she could not hope to extract even a
thousand dollars from Mrs. Peniston on the mere plea of paying Celeste's
bill: Mrs. Peniston would expect to go over the dress-maker's account,
and would make out the cheque to her and not to Lily. And yet the money
must be obtained before the day was over!

"The debts I speak of are--different--not like tradesmen's bills," she
began confusedly; but Mrs. Peniston's look made her almost afraid to
continue. Could it be that her aunt suspected anything? The idea
precipitated Lily's avowal.

"The fact is, I've played cards a good deal--bridge; the women all do it;
girls too--it's expected. Sometimes I've won--won a good deal--but lately
I've been unlucky--and of course such debts can't be paid off
gradually----"

She paused: Mrs. Peniston's face seemed to be petrifying as she listened.

"Cards--you've played cards for money? It's true, then: when I was told
so I wouldn't believe it. I won't ask if the other horrors I was told
were true too; I've heard enough for the state of my nerves. When I think
of the example you've had in this house! But I suppose it's your foreign
bringing-up--no one knew where your mother picked up her friends. And her
Sundays were a scandal--that I know."

Mrs. Peniston wheeled round suddenly. "You play cards on Sunday?"

Lily flushed with the recollection of certain rainy Sundays at Bellomont
and with the Dorsets.

"You're hard on me, Aunt Julia: I have never really cared for cards, but
a girl hates to be thought priggish and superior, and one drifts into
doing what the others do. I've had a dreadful lesson, and if you'll help
me out this time I promise you--"

Mrs. Peniston raised her hand warningly. "You needn't make any promises:
it's unnecessary. When I offered you a home I didn't undertake to pay
your gambling debts."

"Aunt Julia! You don't mean that you won't help me?"

"I shall certainly not do anything to give the impression that I
countenance your behaviour. If you really owe your dress-maker, I will
settle with her--beyond that I recognize no obligation to assume your
debts."

Lily had risen, and stood pale and quivering before her aunt.  Pride
stormed in her, but humiliation forced the cry from her lips: "Aunt
Julia, I shall be disgraced--I--" But she could go no farther. If her
aunt turned such a stony ear to the fiction of the gambling debts, in
what spirit would she receive the terrible avowal of the truth?

"I consider that you ARE disgraced, Lily: disgraced by your conduct far
more than by its results. You say your friends have persuaded you to play
cards with them; well, they may as well learn a lesson too. They can
probably afford to lose a little money--and at any rate, I am not going
to waste any of mine in paying them. And now I must ask you to leave
me--this scene has been extremely painful, and I have my own health to
consider.  Draw down the blinds, please; and tell Jennings I will see no
one this afternoon but Grace Stepney."

Lily went up to her own room and bolted the door. She was trembling with
fear and anger--the rush of the furies' wings was in her ears. She walked
up and down the room with blind irregular steps. The last door of escape
was closed--she felt herself shut in with her dishonour.

Suddenly her wild pacing brought her before the clock on the
chimney-piece. Its hands stood at half-past three, and she remembered
that Selden was to come to her at four. She had meant to put him off with
a word--but now her heart leaped at the thought of seeing him. Was there
not a promise of rescue in his love? As she had lain at Gerty's side the
night before, she had thought of his coming, and of the sweetness of
weeping out her pain upon his breast. Of course she had meant to clear
herself of its consequences before she met him--she had never really
doubted that Mrs. Peniston would come to her aid. And she had felt, even
in the full storm of her misery, that Selden's love could not be her
ultimate refuge; only it would be so sweet to take a moment's shelter
there, while she gathered fresh strength to go on.

But now his love was her only hope, and as she sat alone with her
wretchedness the thought of confiding in him became as seductive as the
river's flow to the suicide. The first plunge would be terrible--but
afterward, what blessedness might come! She remembered Gerty's words: "I
know him--he will help you"; and her mind clung to them as a sick person
might cling to a healing relic. Oh, if he really understood--if he would
help her to gather up her broken life, and put it together in some new
semblance in which no trace of the past should remain! He had always made
her feel that she was worthy of better things, and she had never been in
greater need of such solace. Once and again she shrank at the thought of
imperilling his love by her confession: for love was what she needed--it
would take the glow of passion to weld together the shattered fragments
of her self-esteem. But she recurred to Gerty's words and held fast to
them. She was sure that Gerty knew Selden's feeling for her, and it had
never dawned upon her blindness that Gerty's own judgment of him was
coloured by emotions far more ardent than her own.

Four o'clock found her in the drawing-room: she was sure that Selden
would be punctual. But the hour came and passed--it moved on feverishly,
measured by her impatient heart-beats. She had time to take a fresh
survey of her wretchedness, and to fluctuate anew between the impulse to
confide in Selden and the dread of destroying his illusions.  But as the
minutes passed the need of throwing herself on his comprehension became
more urgent: she could not bear the weight of her misery alone. There
would be a perilous moment, perhaps: but could she not trust to her
beauty to bridge it over, to land her safe in the shelter of his devotion?

But the hour sped on and Selden did not come. Doubtless he had been
detained, or had misread her hurriedly scrawled note, taking the four for
a five. The ringing of the door-bell a few minutes after five confirmed
this supposition, and made Lily hastily resolve to write more legibly in
future. The sound of steps in the hall, and of the butler's voice
preceding them, poured fresh energy into her veins. She felt herself once
more the alert and competent moulder of emergencies, and the remembrance
of her power over Selden flushed her with sudden confidence. But when the
drawing-room door opened it was Rosedale who came in.

The reaction caused her a sharp pang, but after a passing movement of
irritation at the clumsiness of fate, and at her own carelessness in not
denying the door to all but Selden, she controlled herself and greeted
Rosedale amicably. It was annoying that Selden, when he came, should find
that particular visitor in possession, but Lily was mistress of the art
of ridding herself of superfluous company, and to her present mood
Rosedale seemed distinctly negligible.

His own view of the situation forced itself upon her after a few moments'
conversation. She had caught at the Brys' entertainment as an easy
impersonal subject, likely to tide them over the interval till Selden
appeared, but Mr. Rosedale, tenaciously planted beside the tea-table, his
hands in his pockets, his legs a little too freely extended, at once gave
the topic a personal turn.

"Pretty well done--well, yes, I suppose it was: Welly Bry's got his back
up and don't mean to let go till he's got the hang of the thing.  Of
course, there were things here and there--things Mrs. Fisher couldn't be
expected to see to--the champagne wasn't cold, and the coats got mixed in
the coat-room. I would have spent more money on the music. But that's my
character: if I want a thing I'm willing to pay: I don't go up to the
counter, and then wonder if the article's worth the price. I wouldn't be
satisfied to entertain like the Welly Brys; I'd want something that would
look more easy and natural, more as if I took it in my stride. And it
takes just two things to do that, Miss Bart: money, and the right woman
to spend it."

He paused, and examined her attentively while she affected to rearrange
the tea-cups.

"I've got the money," he continued, clearing his throat, "and what I want
is the woman--and I mean to have her too."

He leaned forward a little, resting his hands on the head of his
walking-stick. He had seen men of Ned Van Alstyne's type bring their hats
and sticks into a drawing-room, and he thought it added a touch of
elegant familiarity to their appearance.

Lily was silent, smiling faintly, with her eyes absently resting on his
face. She was in reality reflecting that a declaration would take some
time to make, and that Selden must surely appear before the moment of
refusal had been reached. Her brooding look, as of a mind withdrawn yet
not averted, seemed to Mr. Rosedale full of a subtle encouragement. He
would not have liked any evidence of eagerness.

"I mean to have her too," he repeated, with a laugh intended to
strengthen his self-assurance. "I generally HAVE got what I wanted in
life, Miss Bart. I wanted money, and I've got more than I know how to
invest; and now the money doesn't seem to be of any account unless I can
spend it on the right woman. That's what I want to do with it: I want my
wife to make all the other women feel small. I'd never grudge a dollar
that was spent on that. But it isn't every woman can do it, no matter how
much you spend on her. There was a girl in some history book who wanted
gold shields, or something, and the fellows threw 'em at her, and she was
crushed under 'em: they killed her. Well, that's true enough: some women
looked buried under their jewelry. What I want is a woman who'll hold her
head higher the more diamonds I put on it.  And when I looked at you the
other night at the Brys', in that plain white dress, looking as if you
had a crown on, I said to myself: 'By gad, if she had one she'd wear it
as if it grew on her.'"

Still Lily did not speak, and he continued, warming with his theme: "Tell
you what it is, though, that kind of woman costs more than all the rest
of 'em put together. If a woman's going to ignore her pearls, they want
to be better than anybody else's--and so it is with everything else. You
know what I mean--you know it's only the showy things that are cheap.
Well, I should want my wife to be able to take the earth for granted if
she wanted to. I know there's one thing vulgar about money, and that's
the thinking about it; and my wife would never have to demean herself in
that way." He paused, and then added, with an unfortunate lapse to an
earlier manner: "I guess you know the lady I've got in view, Miss Bart."

Lily raised her head, brightening a little under the challenge.  Even
through the dark tumult of her thoughts, the clink of Mr. Rosedale's
millions had a faintly seductive note. Oh, for enough of them to cancel
her one miserable debt! But the man behind them grew increasingly
repugnant in the light of Selden's expected coming. The contrast was too
grotesque: she could scarcely suppress the smile it provoked. She decided
that directness would be best.

"If you mean me, Mr. Rosedale, I am very grateful--very much flattered;
but I don't know what I have ever done to make you think--"

"Oh, if you mean you're not dead in love with me, I've got sense enough
left to see that. And I ain't talking to you as if you were--I presume I
know the kind of talk that's expected under those circumstances. I'm
confoundedly gone on you--that's about the size of it--and I'm just
giving you a plain business statement of the consequences. You're not
very fond of me--YET--but you're fond of luxury, and style, and
amusement, and of not having to worry about cash. You like to have a good
time, and not have to settle for it; and what I propose to do is to
provide for the good time and do the settling."

He paused, and she returned with a chilling smile: "You are mistaken in
one point, Mr. Rosedale: whatever I enjoy I am prepared to settle for."

She spoke with the intention of making him see that, if his words implied
a tentative allusion to her private affairs, she was prepared to meet and
repudiate it. But if he recognized her meaning it failed to abash him,
and he went on in the same tone: "I didn't mean to give offence; excuse
me if I've spoken too plainly. But why ain't you straight with me--why do
you put up that kind of bluff? You know there've been times when you were
bothered--damned bothered--and as a girl gets older, and things keep
moving along, why, before she knows it, the things she wants are liable
to move past her and not come back.  I don't say it's anywhere near that
with you yet; but you've had a taste of bothers that a girl like yourself
ought never to have known about, and what I'm offering you is the chance
to turn your back on them once for all."

The colour burned in Lily's face as he ended; there was no mistaking the
point he meant to make, and to permit it to pass unheeded was a fatal
confession of weakness, while to resent it too openly was to risk
offending him at a perilous moment.  Indignation quivered on her lip; but
it was quelled by the secret voice which warned her that she must not
quarrel with him. He knew too much about her, and even at the moment when
it was essential that he should show himself at his best, he did not
scruple to let her see how much he knew. How then would he use his power
when her expression of contempt had dispelled his one motive for
restraint? Her whole future might hinge on her way of answering him: she
had to stop and consider that, in the stress of her other anxieties, as a
breathless fugitive may have to pause at the cross-roads and try to
decide coolly which turn to take.

"You are quite right, Mr. Rosedale. I HAVE had bothers; and I am grateful
to you for wanting to relieve me of them. It is not always easy to be
quite independent and self-respecting when one is poor and lives among
rich people; I have been careless about money, and have worried about my
bills. But I should be selfish and ungrateful if I made that a reason for
accepting all you offer, with no better return to make than the desire to
be free from my anxieties. You must give me time--time to think of your
kindness--and of what I could give you in return for it----"

She held out her hand with a charming gesture in which dismissal was
shorn of its rigour. Its hint of future leniency made Rosedale rise in
obedience to it, a little flushed with his unhoped-for success, and
disciplined by the tradition of his blood to accept what was conceded,
without undue haste to press for more. Something in his prompt
acquiescence frightened her; she felt behind it the stored force of a
patience that might subdue the strongest will. But at least they had
parted amicably, and he was out of the house without meeting
Selden--Selden, whose continued absence now smote her with a new alarm.
Rosedale had remained over an hour, and she understood that it was now
too late to hope for Selden. He would write explaining his absence, of
course; there would be a note from him by the late post. But her
confession would have to be postponed; and the chill of the delay settled
heavily on her fagged spirit.

It lay heavier when the postman's last ring brought no note for her, and
she had to go upstairs to a lonely night--a night as grim and sleepless
as her tortured fancy had pictured it to Gerty. She had never learned to
live with her own thoughts, and to be confronted with them through such
hours of lucid misery made the confused wretchedness of her previous
vigil seem easily bearable.

Daylight disbanded the phantom crew, and made it clear to her that she
would hear from Selden before noon; but the day passed without his
writing or coming. Lily remained at home, lunching and dining alone with
her aunt, who complained of flutterings of the heart, and talked icily on
general topics. Mrs. Peniston went to bed early, and when she had gone
Lily sat down and wrote a note to Selden. She was about to ring for a
messenger to despatch it when her eye fell on a paragraph in the evening
paper which lay at her elbow: "Mr. Lawrence Selden was among the
passengers sailing this afternoon for Havana and the West Indies on the
Windward Liner Antilles."

She laid down the paper and sat motionless, staring at her note. She
understood now that he was never coming--that he had gone away because he
was afraid that he might come.  She rose, and walking across the floor
stood gazing at herself for a long time in the brightly-lit mirror above
the mantel-piece.  The lines in her face came out terribly--she looked
old; and when a girl looks old to herself, how does she look to other
people? She moved away, and began to wander aimlessly about the room,
fitting her steps with mechanical precision between the monstrous roses
of Mrs. Peniston's Axminster. Suddenly she noticed that the pen with
which she had written to Selden still rested against the uncovered
inkstand. She seated herself again, and taking out an envelope, addressed
it rapidly to Rosedale. Then she laid out a sheet of paper, and sat over
it with suspended pen. It had been easy enough to write the date, and
"Dear Mr. Rosedale"--but after that her inspiration flagged. She meant to
tell him to come to her, but the words refused to shape themselves. At
length she began: "I have been thinking----" then she laid the pen down,
and sat with her elbows on the table and her face hidden in her hands.

Suddenly she started up at the sound of the door-bell. It was not
late--barely ten o'clock--and there might still be a note from Selden, or
a message--or he might be there himself, on the other side of the door!
The announcement of his sailing might have been a mistake--it might be
another Lawrence Selden who had gone to Havana--all these possibilities
had time to flash through her mind, and build up the conviction that she
was after all to see or hear from him, before the drawing-room door
opened to admit a servant carrying a telegram.

Lily tore it open with shaking hands, and read Bertha Dorset's name below
the message: "Sailing unexpectedly tomorrow. Will you join us on a cruise
in Mediterranean?"




                        BOOK TWO


Chapter 1

It came vividly to Selden on the Casino steps that Monte Carlo had, more
than any other place he knew, the gift of accommodating itself to each
man's humour. His own, at the moment, lent it a festive readiness of
welcome that might well, in a disenchanted eye, have turned to paint and
facility. So frank an appeal for participation--so outspoken a
recognition of the holiday vein in human nature--struck refreshingly on a
mind jaded by prolonged hard work in surroundings made for the discipline
of the senses.  As he surveyed the white square set in an exotic coquetry
of architecture, the studied tropicality of the gardens, the groups
loitering in the foreground against mauve mountains which suggested a
sublime stage-setting forgotten in a hurried shifting of scenes--as he
took in the whole outspread effect of light and leisure, he felt a
movement of revulsion from the last few months of his life.

The New York winter had presented an interminable perspective of
snow-burdened days, reaching toward a spring of raw sunshine and furious
air, when the ugliness of things rasped the eye as the gritty wind ground
into the skin. Selden, immersed in his work, had told himself that
external conditions did not matter to a man in his state, and that cold
and ugliness were a good tonic for relaxed sensibilities.  When an urgent
case summoned him abroad to confer with a client in Paris, he broke
reluctantly with the routine of the office; and it was only now that,
having despatched his business, and slipped away for a week in the south,
he began to feel the renewed zest of spectatorship that is the solace of
those who take an objective interest in life.

The multiplicity of its appeals--the perpetual surprise of its contrasts
and resemblances! All these tricks and turns of the show were upon him
with a spring as he descended the Casino steps and paused on the pavement
at its doors. He had not been abroad for seven years--and what changes
the renewed contact produced!  If the central depths were untouched,
hardly a pin-point of surface remained the same. And this was the very
place to bring out the completeness of the renewal. The sublimities, the
perpetuities, might have left him as he was: but this tent pitched for a
day's revelry spread a roof of oblivion between himself and his fixed sky.

It was mid-April, and one felt that the revelry had reached its climax
and that the desultory groups in the square and gardens would soon
dissolve and re-form in other scenes. Meanwhile the last moments of the
performance seemed to gain an added brightness from the hovering threat
of the curtain. The quality of the air, the exuberance of the flowers,
the blue intensity of sea and sky, produced the effect of a closing
TABLEAU, when all the lights are turned on at once. This impression was
presently heightened by the way in which a consciously conspicuous group
of people advanced to the middle front, and stood before Selden with the
air of the chief performers gathered together by the exigencies of the
final effect. Their appearance confirmed the impression that the show had
been staged regardless of expense, and emphasized its resemblance to one
of those "costume-plays" in which the protagonists walk through the
passions without displacing a drapery.  The ladies stood in unrelated
attitudes calculated to isolate their effects, and the men hung about
them as irrelevantly as stage heroes whose tailors are named in the
programme. It was Selden himself who unwittingly fused the group by
arresting the attention of one of its members.

"Why, Mr. Selden!" Mrs. Fisher exclaimed in surprise; and with a gesture
toward Mrs. Jack Stepney and Mrs. Wellington Bry, she added plaintively:
"We're starving to death because we can't decide where to lunch."

Welcomed into their group, and made the confidant of their difficulty,
Selden learned with amusement that there were several places where one
might miss something by not lunching, or forfeit something by lunching;
so that eating actually became a minor consideration on the very spot
consecrated to its rites.

"Of course one gets the best things at the TERRASSE--but that looks as if
one hadn't any other reason for being there: the Americans who don't know
any one always rush for the best food.  And the Duchess of Beltshire has
taken up Becassin's lately," Mrs. Bry earnestly summed up.

Mrs. Bry, to Mrs. Fisher's despair, had not progressed beyond the point
of weighing her social alternatives in public. She could not acquire the
air of doing things because she wanted to, and making her choice the
final seal of their fitness.

Mr. Bry, a short pale man, with a business face and leisure clothes, met
the dilemma hilariously.

"I guess the Duchess goes where it's cheapest, unless she can get her
meal paid for. If you offered to blow her off at the TERRASSE she'd turn
up fast enough."

But Mrs. Jack Stepney interposed. "The Grand Dukes go to that little
place at the Condamine. Lord Hubert says it's the only restaurant in
Europe where they can cook peas."

Lord Hubert Dacey, a slender shabby-looking man, with a charming worn
smile, and the air of having spent his best years in piloting the wealthy
to the right restaurant, assented with gentle emphasis: "It's quite that."

"PEAS?" said Mr. Bry contemptuously. "Can they cook terrapin? It just
shows," he continued, "what these European markets are, when a fellow can
make a reputation cooking peas!"

Jack Stepney intervened with authority. "I don't know that I quite agree
with Dacey: there's a little hole in Paris, off the Quai Voltaire--but in
any case, I can't advise the Condamine GARGOTE; at least not with ladies."

Stepney, since his marriage, had thickened and grown prudish, as the Van
Osburgh husbands were apt to do; but his wife, to his surprise and
discomfiture, had developed an earth-shaking fastness of gait which left
him trailing breathlessly in her wake.

"That's where we'll go then!" she declared, with a heavy toss of her
plumage. "I'm so tired of the TERRASSE: it's as dull as one of mother's
dinners. And Lord Hubert has promised to tell us who all the awful people
are at the other place--hasn't he, Carry?  Now, Jack, don't look so
solemn!"

"Well," said Mrs. Bry, "all I want to know is who their dress-makers are."

"No doubt Dacey can tell you that too," remarked Stepney, with an ironic
intention which the other received with the light murmur, "I can at least
FIND OUT, my dear fellow"; and Mrs. Bry having declared that she couldn't
walk another step, the party hailed two or three of the light phaetons
which hover attentively on the confines of the gardens, and rattled off
in procession toward the Condamine.

Their destination was one of the little restaurants overhanging the
boulevard which dips steeply down from Monte Carlo to the low
intermediate quarter along the quay. From the window in which they
presently found themselves installed, they overlooked the intense blue
curve of the harbour, set between the verdure of twin promontories: to
the right, the cliff of Monaco, topped by the mediaeval silhouette of its
church and castle, to the left the terraces and pinnacles of the
gambling-house. Between the two, the waters of the bay were furrowed by a
light coming and going of pleasure-craft, through which, just at the
culminating moment of luncheon, the majestic advance of a great
steam-yacht drew the company's attention from the peas.

"By Jove, I believe that's the Dorsets back!" Stepney exclaimed; and Lord
Hubert, dropping his single eye-glass, corroborated: "It's the
Sabrina--yes."

"So soon? They were to spend a month in Sicily," Mrs. Fisher observed.

"I guess they feel as if they had: there's only one up-to-date hotel in
the whole place," said Mr. Bry disparagingly.

"It was Ned Silverton's idea--but poor Dorset and Lily Bart must have
been horribly bored." Mrs. Fisher added in an undertone to Selden: "I do
hope there hasn't been a row."

"It's most awfully jolly having Miss Bart back," said Lord Hubert, in his
mild deliberate voice; and Mrs. Bry added ingenuously: "I daresay the
Duchess will dine with us, now that Lily's here."

"The Duchess admires her immensely: I'm sure she'd be charmed to have it
arranged," Lord Hubert agreed, with the professional promptness of the
man accustomed to draw his profit from facilitating social contacts:
Selden was struck by the businesslike change in his manner.

"Lily has been a tremendous success here," Mrs. Fisher continued, still
addressing herself confidentially to Selden. "She looks ten years
younger--I never saw her so handsome. Lady Skiddaw took her everywhere in
Cannes, and the Crown Princess of Macedonia had her to stop for a week at
Cimiez. People say that was one reason why Bertha whisked the yacht off
to Sicily: the Crown Princess didn't take much notice of her, and she
couldn't bear to look on at Lily's triumph."

Selden made no reply. He was vaguely aware that Miss Bart was cruising in
the Mediterranean with the Dorsets, but it had not occurred to him that
there was any chance of running across her on the Riviera, where the
season was virtually at an end. As he leaned back, silently contemplating
his filigree cup of Turkish coffee, he was trying to put some order in
his thoughts, to tell himself how the news of her nearness was really
affecting him. He had a personal detachment enabling him, even in moments
of emotional high-pressure, to get a fairly clear view of his feelings,
and he was sincerely surprised by the disturbance which the sight of the
Sabrina had produced in him. He had reason to think that his three months
of engrossing professional work, following on the sharp shock of his
disillusionment, had cleared his mind of its sentimental vapours. The
feeling he had nourished and given prominence to was one of thankfulness
for his escape: he was like a traveller so grateful for rescue from a
dangerous accident that at first he is hardly conscious of his bruises.
Now he suddenly felt the latent ache, and realized that after all he had
not come off unhurt.

An hour later, at Mrs. Fisher's side in the Casino gardens, he was trying
to find fresh reasons for forgetting the injury received in the
contemplation of the peril avoided. The party had dispersed with the
loitering indecision characteristic of social movements at Monte Carlo,
where the whole place, and the long gilded hours of the day, seem to
offer an infinity of ways of being idle. Lord Hubert Dacey had finally
gone off in quest of the Duchess of Beltshire, charged by Mrs. Bry with
the delicate negotiation of securing that lady's presence at dinner, the
Stepneys had left for Nice in their motor-car, and Mr. Bry had departed
to take his place in the pigeon shooting match which was at the moment
engaging his highest faculties.

Mrs. Bry, who had a tendency to grow red and stertorous after luncheon,
had been judiciously prevailed upon by Carry Fisher to withdraw to her
hotel for an hour's repose; and Selden and his companion were thus left
to a stroll propitious to confidences. The stroll soon resolved itself
into a tranquil session on a bench overhung with laurel and Banksian
roses, from which they caught a dazzle of blue sea between marble
balusters, and the fiery shafts of cactus-blossoms shooting meteor-like
from the rock. The soft shade of their niche, and the adjacent glitter of
the air, were conducive to an easy lounging mood, and to the smoking of
many cigarettes; and Selden, yielding to these influences, suffered Mrs.
Fisher to unfold to him the history of her recent experiences. She had
come abroad with the Welly Brys at the moment when fashion flees the
inclemency of the New York spring. The Brys, intoxicated by their first
success, already thirsted for new kingdoms, and Mrs. Fisher, viewing the
Riviera as an easy introduction to London society, had guided their
course thither. She had affiliations of her own in every capital, and a
facility for picking them up again after long absences; and the carefully
disseminated rumour of the Brys' wealth had at once gathered about them a
group of cosmopolitan pleasure-seekers.

"But things are not going as well as I expected," Mrs. Fisher frankly
admitted. "It's all very well to say that every body with money can get
into society; but it would be truer to say that NEARLY everybody can.
And the London market is so glutted with new Americans that, to succeed
there now, they must be either very clever or awfully queer. The Brys are
neither. HE would get on well enough if she'd let him alone; they like
his slang and his brag and his blunders. But Louisa spoils it all by
trying to repress him and put herself forward. If she'd be natural
herself--fat and vulgar and bouncing--it would be all right; but as soon
as she meets anybody smart she tries to be slender and queenly.  She
tried it with the Duchess of Beltshire and Lady Skiddaw, and they fled.
I've done my best to make her see her mistake--I've said to her again and
again: 'Just let yourself go, Louisa'; but she keeps up the humbug even
with me--I believe she keeps on being queenly in her own room, with the
door shut.

"The worst of it is," Mrs. Fisher went on, "that she thinks it's all MY
fault. When the Dorsets turned up here six weeks ago, and everybody began
to make a fuss about Lily Bart, I could see Louisa thought that if she'd
had Lily in tow instead of me she would have been hob-nobbing with all
the royalties by this time. She doesn't realize that it's Lily's beauty
that does it: Lord Hubert tells me Lily is thought even handsomer than
when he knew her at Aix ten years ago. It seems she was tremendously
admired there. An Italian Prince, rich and the real thing, wanted to
marry her; but just at the critical moment a good-looking step-son turned
up, and Lily was silly enough to flirt with him while her
marriage-settlements with the step-father were being drawn up. Some
people said the young man did it on purpose. You can fancy the scandal:
there was an awful row between the men, and people began to look at Lily
so queerly that Mrs. Peniston had to pack up and finish her cure
elsewhere. Not that SHE ever understood: to this day she thinks that Aix
didn't suit her, and mentions her having been sent there as proof of the
incompetence of French doctors. That's Lily all over, you know: she works
like a slave preparing the ground and sowing her seed; but the day she
ought to be reaping the harvest she over-sleeps herself or goes off on a
picnic."

Mrs. Fisher paused and looked reflectively at the deep shimmer of sea
between the cactus-flowers. "Sometimes," she added, "I think it's just
flightiness--and sometimes I think it's because, at heart, she despises
the things she's trying for. And it's the difficulty of deciding that
makes her such an interesting study." She glanced tentatively at Selden's
motionless profile, and resumed with a slight sigh: "Well, all I can say
is, I wish she'd give ME some of her discarded opportunities.  I wish we
could change places now, for instance. She could make a very good thing
out of the Brys if she managed them properly, and I should know just how
to look after George Dorset while Bertha is reading Verlaine with Neddy
Silverton."

She met Selden's sound of protest with a sharp derisive glance.  "Well,
what's the use of mincing matters? We all know that's what Bertha brought
her abroad for. When Bertha wants to have a good time she has to provide
occupation for George. At first I thought Lily was going to play her
cards well THIS time, but there are rumours that Bertha is jealous of her
success here and at Cannes, and I shouldn't be surprised if there were a
break any day. Lily's only safeguard is that Bertha needs her badly--oh,
very badly. The Silverton affair is in the acute stage: it's necessary
that George's attention should be pretty continuously distracted. And I'm
bound to say Lily DOES distract it: I believe he'd marry her tomorrow if
he found out there was anything wrong with Bertha. But you know him--he's
as blind as he's jealous; and of course Lily's present business is to
keep him blind. A clever woman might know just the right moment to tear
off the bandage: but Lily isn't clever in that way, and when George does
open his eyes she'll probably contrive not to be in his line of vision."

Selden tossed away his cigarette. "By Jove--it's time for my train," he
exclaimed, with a glance at his watch; adding, in reply to Mrs. Fisher's
surprised comment--"Why, I thought of course you were at Monte!"--a
murmured word to the effect that he was making Nice his head-quarters.

"The worst of it is, she snubs the Brys now," he heard irrelevantly flung
after him.

Ten minutes later, in the high-perched bedroom of an hotel overlooking
the Casino, he was tossing his effects into a couple of gaping
portmanteaux, while the porter waited outside to transport them to the
cab at the door. It took but a brief plunge down the steep white road to
the station to land him safely in the afternoon express for Nice; and not
till he was installed in the corner of an empty carriage, did he exclaim
to himself, with a reaction of self-contempt: "What the deuce am I
running away from?"

The pertinence of the question checked Selden's fugitive impulse before
the train had started. It was ridiculous to be flying like an emotional
coward from an infatuation his reason had conquered.  He had instructed
his bankers to forward some important business letters to Nice, and at
Nice he would quietly await them. He was already annoyed with himself for
having left Monte Carlo, where he had intended to pass the week which
remained to him before sailing; but it would now be difficult to return
on his steps without an appearance of inconsistency from which his pride
recoiled. In his inmost heart he was not sorry to put himself beyond the
probability of meeting Miss Bart. Completely as he had detached himself
from her, he could not yet regard her merely as a social instance; and
viewed in a more personal ways she was not likely to be a reassuring
object of study. Chance encounters, or even the repeated mention of her
name, would send his thoughts back into grooves from which he had
resolutely detached them; whereas, if she could be entirely excluded from
his life, the pressure of new and varied impressions, with which no
thought of her was connected, would soon complete the work of separation.
Mrs. Fisher's conversation had, indeed, operated to that end; but the
treatment was too painful to be voluntarily chosen while milder remedies
were untried; and Selden thought he could trust himself to return
gradually to a reasonable view of Miss Bart, if only he did not see her.

Having reached the station early, he had arrived at this point in his
reflections before the increasing throng on the platform warned him that
he could not hope to preserve his privacy; the next moment there was a
hand on the door, and he turned to confront the very face he was fleeing.

Miss Bart, glowing with the haste of a precipitate descent upon the
train, headed a group composed of the Dorsets, young Silverton and Lord
Hubert Dacey, who had barely time to spring into the carriage, and
envelop Selden in ejaculations of surprise and welcome, before the
whistle of departure sounded. The party, it appeared, were hastening to
Nice in response to a sudden summons to dine with the Duchess of
Beltshire and to see the water-fete in the bay; a plan evidently
improvised--in spite of Lord Hubert's protesting "Oh, I say, you
know,"--for the express purpose of defeating Mrs. Bry's endeavour to
capture the Duchess.

During the laughing relation of this manoeuvre, Selden had time for a
rapid impression of Miss Bart, who had seated herself opposite to him in
the golden afternoon light. Scarcely three months had elapsed since he
had parted from her on the threshold of the Brys' conservatory; but a
subtle change had passed over the quality of her beauty. Then it had had
a transparency through which the fluctuations of the spirit were
sometimes tragically visible; now its impenetrable surface suggested a
process of crystallization which had fused her whole being into one hard
brilliant substance. The change had struck Mrs. Fisher as a rejuvenation:
to Selden it seemed like that moment of pause and arrest when the warm
fluidity of youth is chilled into its final shape.

He felt it in the way she smiled on him, and in the readiness and
competence with which, flung unexpectedly into his presence, she took up
the thread of their intercourse as though that thread had not been
snapped with a violence from which he still reeled. Such facility
sickened him--but he told himself that it was with the pang which
precedes recovery. Now he would really get well--would eject the last
drop of poison from his blood. Already he felt himself calmer in her
presence than he had learned to be in the thought of her. Her assumptions
and elisions, her short-cuts and long DETOURS, the skill with which she
contrived to meet him at a point from which no inconvenient glimpses of
the past were visible, suggested what opportunities she had had for
practising such arts since their last meeting. He felt that she had at
last arrived at an understanding with herself: had made a pact with her
rebellious impulses, and achieved a uniform system of self-government,
under which all vagrant tendencies were either held captive or forced
into the service of the state.

And he saw other things too in her manner: saw how it had adjusted itself
to the hidden intricacies of a situation in which, even after Mrs.
Fisher's elucidating flashes, he still felt himself agrope. Surely Mrs.
Fisher could no longer charge Miss Bart with neglecting her
opportunities! To Selden's exasperated observation she was only too
completely alive to them. She was "perfect" to every one: subservient to
Bertha's anxious predominance, good-naturedly watchful of Dorset's moods,
brightly companionable to Silverton and Dacey, the latter of whom met her
on an evident footing of old admiration, while young Silverton,
portentously self-absorbed, seemed conscious of her only as of something
vaguely obstructive. And suddenly, as Selden noted the fine shades of
manner by which she harmonized herself with her surroundings, it flashed
on him that, to need such adroit handling, the situation must indeed be
desperate. She was on the edge of something--that was the impression left
with him.  He seemed to see her poised on the brink of a chasm, with one
graceful foot advanced to assert her unconsciousness that the ground was
failing her.

On the Promenade des Anglais, where Ned Silverton hung on him for the
half hour before dinner, he received a deeper impression of the general
insecurity. Silverton was in a mood of Titanic pessimism. How any one
could come to such a damned hole as the Riviera--any one with a grain of
imagination--with the whole Mediterranean to choose from: but then, if
one's estimate of a place depended on the way they broiled a spring
chicken! Gad!  what a study might be made of the tyranny of the
stomach--the way a sluggish liver or insufficient gastric juices might
affect the whole course of the universe, overshadow everything in
reach--chronic dyspepsia ought to be among the "statutory causes"; a
woman's life might be ruined by a man's inability to digest fresh bread.
Grotesque? Yes--and tragic--like most absurdities. There's nothing
grimmer than the tragedy that wears a comic mask.... Where was he?
Oh--the reason they chucked Sicily and rushed back? Well--partly, no
doubt, Miss Bart's desire to get back to bridge and smartness. Dead as a
stone to art and poetry--the light never WAS on sea or land for her! And
of course she persuaded Dorset that the Italian food was bad for him. Oh,
she could make him believe anything--ANYTHING! Mrs. Dorset was aware of
it--oh, perfectly: nothing SHE didn't see! But she could hold her
tongue--she'd had to, often enough. Miss Bart was an intimate friend--she
wouldn't hear a word against her. Only it hurts a woman's pride--there
are some things one doesn't get used to . . . All this in confidence, of
course? Ah--and there were the ladies signalling from the balcony of the
hotel.... He plunged across the Promenade, leaving Selden to a meditative
cigar.

The conclusions it led him to were fortified, later in the evening, by
some of those faint corroborative hints that generate a light of their
own in the dusk of a doubting mind. Selden, stumbling on a chance
acquaintance, had dined with him, and adjourned, still in his company, to
the brightly lit Promenade, where a line of crowded stands commanded the
glittering darkness of the waters. The night was soft and persuasive.
Overhead hung a summer sky furrowed with the rush of rockets; and from
the east a late moon, pushing up beyond the lofty bend of the coast, sent
across the bay a shaft of brightness which paled to ashes in the red
glitter of the illuminated boats. Down the lantern-hung Promenade,
snatches of band-music floated above the hum of the crowd and the soft
tossing of boughs in dusky gardens; and between these gardens and the
backs of the stands there flowed a stream of people in whom the
vociferous carnival mood seemed tempered by the growing languor of the
season.

Selden and his companion, unable to get seats on one of the stands facing
the bay, had wandered for a while with the throng, and then found a point
of vantage on a high garden-parapet above the Promenade.  Thence they
caught but a triangular glimpse of the water, and of the flashing play of
boats across its surface; but the crowd in the street was under their
immediate view, and seemed to Selden, on the whole, of more interest than
the show itself. After a while, however, he wearied of his perch and,
dropping alone to the pavement, pushed his way to the first corner and
turned into the moonlit silence of a side street. Long garden-walls
overhung by trees made a dark boundary to the pavement; an empty cab
trailed along the deserted thoroughfare, and presently Selden saw two
persons emerge from the opposite shadows, signal to the cab, and drive
off in it toward the centre of the town. The moonlight touched them as
they paused to enter the carriage, and he recognized Mrs. Dorset and
young Silverton.

Beneath the nearest lamp-post he glanced at his watch and saw that the
time was close on eleven. He took another cross street, and without
breasting the throng on the Promenade, made his way to the fashionable
club which overlooks that thoroughfare. Here, amid the blaze of crowded
baccarat tables, he caught sight of Lord Hubert Dacey, seated with his
habitual worn smile behind a rapidly dwindling heap of gold. The heap
being in due course wiped out, Lord Hubert rose with a shrug, and joining
Selden, adjourned with him to the deserted terrace of the club.  It was
now past midnight, and the throng on the stands was dispersing, while the
long trails of red-lit boats scattered and faded beneath a sky
repossessed by the tranquil splendour of the moon.

Lord Hubert looked at his watch. "By Jove, I promised to join the Duchess
for supper at the LONDON HOUSE; but it's past twelve, and I suppose
they've all scattered. The fact is, I lost them in the crowd soon after
dinner, and took refuge here, for my sins. They had seats on one of the
stands, but of course they couldn't stop quiet: the Duchess never can.
She and Miss Bart went off in quest of what they call adventures--gad, it
ain't their fault if they don't have some queer ones!" He added
tentatively, after pausing to grope for a cigarette: "Miss Bart's an old
friend of yours, I believe? So she told me.--Ah, thanks--I don't seem to
have one left." He lit Selden's proffered cigarette, and continued, in
his high-pitched drawling tone: "None of my business, of course, but I
didn't introduce her to the Duchess.  Charming woman, the Duchess, you
understand; and a very good friend of mine; but RATHER a liberal
education."

Selden received this in silence, and after a few puffs Lord Hubert broke
out again: "Sort of thing one can't communicate to the young lady--though
young ladies nowadays are so competent to judge for themselves; but in
this case--I'm an old friend too, you know . . . and there seemed no one
else to speak to. The whole situation's a little mixed, as I see it--but
there used to be an aunt somewhere, a diffuse and innocent person, who
was great at bridging over chasms she didn't see . . . Ah, in New York,
is she? Pity New York's such a long way off!"



Chapter 2

Miss Bart, emerging late the next morning from her cabin, found herself
alone on the deck of the Sabrina. The cushioned chairs, disposed
expectantly under the wide awning, showed no signs of recent occupancy,
and she presently learned from a steward that Mrs. Dorset had not yet
appeared, and that the gentlemen--separately--had gone ashore as soon as
they had breakfasted. Supplied with these facts, Lily leaned awhile over
the side, giving herself up to a leisurely enjoyment of the spectacle
before her. Unclouded sunlight enveloped sea and shore in a bath of
purest radiancy. The purpling waters drew a sharp white line of foam at
the base of the shore; against its irregular eminences, hotels and villas
flashed from the greyish verdure of olive and eucalyptus; and the
background of bare and finely-pencilled mountains quivered in a pale
intensity of light.


How beautiful it was--and how she loved beauty! She had always felt that
her sensibility in this direction made up for certain obtusenesses of
feeling of which she was less proud; and during the last three months she
had indulged it passionately. The Dorsets' invitation to go abroad with
them had come as an almost miraculous release from crushing difficulties;
and her faculty for renewing herself in new scenes, and casting off
problems of conduct as easily as the surroundings in which they had
arisen, made the mere change from one place to another seem, not merely a
postponement, but a solution of her troubles. Moral complications existed
for her only in the environment that had produced them; she did not mean
to slight or ignore them, but they lost their reality when they changed
their background. She could not have remained in New York without
repaying the money she owed to Trenor; to acquit herself of that odious
debt she might even have faced a marriage with Rosedale; but the accident
of placing the Atlantic between herself and her obligations made them
dwindle out of sight as if they had been milestones and she had travelled
past them.

Her two months on the Sabrina had been especially calculated to aid this
illusion of distance. She had been plunged into new scenes, and had found
in them a renewal of old hopes and ambitions. The cruise itself charmed
her as a romantic adventure.  She was vaguely touched by the names and
scenes amid which she moved, and had listened to Ned Silverton reading
Theocritus by moonlight, as the yacht rounded the Sicilian promontories,
with a thrill of the nerves that confirmed her belief in her intellectual
superiority. But the weeks at Cannes and Nice had really given her more
pleasure. The gratification of being welcomed in high company, and of
making her own ascendency felt there, so that she found herself figuring
once more as the "beautiful Miss Bart" in the interesting journal devoted
to recording the least movements of her cosmopolitan companions--all
these experiences tended to throw into the extreme background of memory
the prosaic and sordid difficulties from which she had escaped.

If she was faintly aware of fresh difficulties ahead, she was sure of her
ability to meet them: it was characteristic of her to feel that the only
problems she could not solve were those with which she was familiar.
Meanwhile she could honestly be proud of the skill with which she had
adapted herself to somewhat delicate conditions. She had reason to think
that she had made herself equally necessary to her host and hostess; and
if only she had seen any perfectly irreproachable means of drawing a
financial profit from the situation, there would have been no cloud on
her horizon. The truth was that her funds, as usual, were inconveniently
low; and to neither Dorset nor his wife could this vulgar embarrassment
be safely hinted. Still, the need was not a pressing one; she could worry
along, as she had so often done before, with the hope of some happy
change of fortune to sustain her; and meanwhile life was gay and
beautiful and easy, and she was conscious of figuring not unworthily in
such a setting.

She was engaged to breakfast that morning with the Duchess of Beltshire,
and at twelve o'clock she asked to be set ashore in the gig.  Before this
she had sent her maid to enquire if she might see Mrs. Dorset; but the
reply came back that the latter was tired, and trying to sleep. Lily
thought she understood the reason of the rebuff. Her hostess had not been
included in the Duchess's invitation, though she herself had made the
most loyal efforts in that direction. But her grace was impervious to
hints, and invited or omitted as she chose. It was not Lily's fault if
Mrs. Dorset's complicated attitudes did not fall in with the Duchess's
easy gait. The Duchess, who seldom explained herself, had not formulated
her objection beyond saying: "She's rather a bore, you know. The only one
of your friends I like is that little Mr. Bry--HE'S funny--" but Lily
knew enough not to press the point, and was not altogether sorry to be
thus distinguished at her friend's expense. Bertha certainly HAD grown
tiresome since she had taken to poetry and Ned Silverton.

On the whole, it was a relief to break away now and then from the
Sabrina; and the Duchess's little breakfast, organized by Lord Hubert
with all his usual virtuosity, was the pleasanter to Lily for not
including her travelling-companions. Dorset, of late, had grown more than
usually morose and incalculable, and Ned Silverton went about with an air
that seemed to challenge the universe. The freedom and lightness of the
ducal intercourse made an agreeable change from these complications, and
Lily was tempted, after luncheon, to adjourn in the wake of her
companions to the hectic atmosphere of the Casino. She did not mean to
play; her diminished pocket-money offered small scope for the adventure;
but it amused her to sit on a divan, under the doubtful protection of the
Duchess's back, while the latter hung above her stakes at a neighbouring
table.

The rooms were packed with the gazing throng which, in the afternoon
hours, trickles heavily between the tables, like the Sunday crowd in a
lion-house. In the stagnant flow of the mass, identities were hardly
distinguishable; but Lily presently saw Mrs. Bry cleaving her determined
way through the doors, and, in the broad wake she left, the light figure
of Mrs. Fisher bobbing after her like a row-boat at the stern of a tug.
Mrs. Bry pressed on, evidently animated by the resolve to reach a certain
point in the rooms; but Mrs. Fisher, as she passed Lily, broke from her
towing-line, and let herself float to the girl's side.

"Lose her?" she echoed the latter's query, with an indifferent glance at
Mrs. Bry's retreating back. "I daresay--it doesn't matter: I HAVE lost
her already." And, as Lily exclaimed, she added: "We had an awful row
this morning. You know, of course, that the Duchess chucked her at dinner
last night, and she thinks it was my fault--my want of management. The
worst of it is, the message--just a mere word by telephone--came so late
that the dinner HAD to be paid for; and Becassin HAD run it up--it had
been so drummed into him that the Duchess was coming!" Mrs. Fisher
indulged in a faint laugh at the remembrance. "Paying for what she
doesn't get rankles so dreadfully with Louisa: I can't make her see that
it's one of the preliminary steps to getting what you haven't paid
for--and as I was the nearest thing to smash, she smashed me to atoms,
poor dear!"

Lily murmured her commiseration. Impulses of sympathy came naturally to
her, and it was instinctive to proffer her help to Mrs. Fisher.

"If there's anything I can do--if it's only a question of meeting the
Duchess! I heard her say she thought Mr. Bry amusing----"

But Mrs. Fisher interposed with a decisive gesture. "My dear, I have my
pride: the pride of my trade. I couldn't manage the Duchess, and I can't
palm off your arts on Louisa Bry as mine.  I've taken the final step: I
go to Paris tonight with the Sam Gormers. THEY'RE still in the elementary
stage; an Italian Prince is a great deal more than a Prince to them, and
they're always on the brink of taking a courier for one.  To save them
from that is my present mission." She laughed again at the picture. "But
before I go I want to make my last will and testament--I want to leave
you the Brys."

"Me?" Miss Bart joined in her amusement. "It's charming of you to
remember me, dear; but really----"

"You're already so well provided for?" Mrs. Fisher flashed a sharp glance
at her. "ARE you, though, Lily--to the point of rejecting my offer?"

Miss Bart coloured slowly. "What I really meant was, that the Brys
wouldn't in the least care to be so disposed of."

Mrs. Fisher continued to probe her embarrassment with an unflinching eye.
"What you really meant was that you've snubbed the Brys horribly; and you
know that they know----"

"Carry!"

"Oh, on certain sides Louisa bristles with perceptions. If you'd even
managed to have them asked once on the Sabrina--especially when royalties
were coming! But it's not too late," she ended earnestly, "it's not too
late for either of you."

Lily smiled. "Stay over, and I'll get the Duchess to dine with them."

"I shan't stay over--the Gormers have paid for my SALON-LIT," said Mrs.
Fisher with simplicity. "But get the Duchess to dine with them all the
same."

Lily's smile again flowed into a slight laugh: her friend's importunity
was beginning to strike her as irrelevant. "I'm sorry I have been
negligent about the Brys----" she began.

"Oh, as to the Brys--it's you I'm thinking of," said Mrs. Fisher
abruptly. She paused, and then, bending forward, with a lowered voice:
"You know we all went on to Nice last night when the Duchess chucked us.
It was Louisa's idea--I told her what I thought of it."

Miss Bart assented. "Yes--I caught sight of you on the way back, at the
station."

"Well, the man who was in the carriage with you and George Dorset--that
horrid little Dabham who does 'Society Notes from the Riviera'--had been
dining with us at Nice. And he's telling everybody that you and Dorset
came back alone after midnight."

"Alone--? When he was with us?" Lily laughed, but her laugh faded into
gravity under the prolonged implication of Mrs. Fisher's look. "We DID
come back alone--if that's so very dreadful! But whose fault was it?  The
Duchess was spending the night at Cimiez with the Crown Princess; Bertha
got bored with the show, and went off early, promising to meet us at the
station. We turned up on time, but she didn't--she didn't turn up at all!"

Miss Bart made this announcement in the tone of one who presents, with
careless assurance, a complete vindication; but Mrs. Fisher received it
in a manner almost inconsequent. She seemed to have lost sight of her
friend's part in the incident: her inward vision had taken another slant.

"Bertha never turned up at all? Then how on earth did she get back?"

"Oh, by the next train, I suppose; there were two extra ones for the
FETE. At any rate, I know she's safe on the yacht, though I haven't yet
seen her; but you see it was not my fault," Lily summed up.

"Not your fault that Bertha didn't turn up? My poor child, if only you
don't have to pay for it!" Mrs. Fisher rose--she had seen Mrs. Bry
surging back in her direction. "There's Louisa, and I must be off--oh,
we're on the best of terms externally; we're lunching together; but at
heart it's ME she's lunching on," she explained; and with a last
hand-clasp and a last look, she added: "Remember, I leave her to you;
she's hovering now, ready to take you in."



Lily carried the impression of Mrs. Fisher's leave-taking away with her
from the Casino doors. She had accomplished, before leaving, the first
step toward her reinstatement in Mrs. Bry's good graces. An affable
advance--a vague murmur that they must see more of each other--an
allusive glance to a near future that was felt to include the Duchess as
well as the Sabrina--how easily it was all done, if one possessed the
knack of doing it!  She wondered at herself, as she had so often
wondered, that, possessing the knack, she did not more consistently
exercise it.  But sometimes she was forgetful--and sometimes, could it be
that she was proud? Today, at any rate, she had been vaguely conscious of
a reason for sinking her pride, had in fact even sunk it to the point of
suggesting to Lord Hubert Dacey, whom she ran across on the Casino steps,
that he might really get the Duchess to dine with the Brys, if SHE
undertook to have them asked on the Sabrina. Lord Hubert had promised his
help, with the readiness on which she could always count: it was his only
way of ever reminding her that he had once been ready to do so much more
for her. Her path, in short, seemed to smooth itself before her as she
advanced; yet the faint stir of uneasiness persisted. Had it been
produced, she wondered, by her chance meeting with Selden?  She thought
not--time and change seemed so completely to have relegated him to his
proper distance. The sudden and exquisite reaction from her anxieties had
had the effect of throwing the recent past so far back that even Selden,
as part of it, retained a certain air of unreality. And he had made it so
clear that they were not to meet again; that he had merely dropped down
to Nice for a day or two, and had almost his foot on the next steamer.
No--that part of the past had merely surged up for a moment on the
fleeing surface of events; and now that it was submerged again, the
uncertainty, the apprehension persisted.

They grew to sudden acuteness as she caught sight of George Dorset
descending the steps of the Hotel de Paris and making for her across the
square. She had meant to drive down to the quay and regain the yacht; but
she now had the immediate impression that something more was to happen
first.

"Which way are you going? Shall we walk a bit?" he began, putting the
second question before the first was answered, and not waiting for a
reply to either before he directed her silently toward the comparative
seclusion of the lower gardens.

She detected in him at once all the signs of extreme nervous tension.
The skin was puffed out under his sunken eyes, and its sallowness had
paled to a leaden white against which his irregular eyebrows and long
reddish moustache were relieved with a saturnine effect. His appearance,
in short, presented an odd mixture of the bedraggled and the ferocious.

He walked beside her in silence, with quick precipitate steps, till they
reached the embowered slopes to the east of the Casino; then, pulling up
abruptly, he said: "Have you seen Bertha?"

"No--when I left the yacht she was not yet up."

He received this with a laugh like the whirring sound in a disabled
clock. "Not yet up? Had she gone to bed? Do you know at what time she
came on board? This morning at seven!" he exclaimed.

"At seven?" Lily started. "What happened--an accident to the train?"

He laughed again. "They missed the train--all the trains--they had to
drive back."

"Well----?" She hesitated, feeling at once how little even this necessity
accounted for the fatal lapse of hours.

"Well, they couldn't get a carriage at once--at that time of night, you
know--" the explanatory note made it almost seem as though he were
putting the case for his wife--"and when they finally did, it was only a
one-horse cab, and the horse was lame!"

"How tiresome! I see," she affirmed, with the more earnestness because
she was so nervously conscious that she did not; and after a pause she
added: "I'm so sorry--but ought we to have waited?"

"Waited for the one-horse cab? It would scarcely have carried the four of
us, do you think?"

She took this in what seemed the only possible way, with a laugh intended
to sink the question itself in his humorous treatment of it.  "Well, it
would have been difficult; we should have had to walk by turns. But it
would have been jolly to see the sunrise."

"Yes: the sunrise WAS jolly," he agreed.

"Was it? You saw it, then?"

"I saw it, yes; from the deck. I waited up for them."

"Naturally--I suppose you were worried. Why didn't you call on me to
share your vigil?"

He stood still, dragging at his moustache with a lean weak hand.  "I
don't think you would have cared for its DENOUEMENT," he said with sudden
grimness.

Again she was disconcerted by the abrupt change in his tone, and as in
one flash she saw the peril of the moment, and the need of keeping her
sense of it out of her eyes.

"DENOUEMENT--isn't that too big a word for such a small incident?  The
worst of it, after all, is the fatigue which Bertha has probably slept
off by this time."

She clung to the note bravely, though its futility was now plain to her
in the glare of his miserable eyes.

"Don't--don't----!" he broke out, with the hurt cry of a child; and while
she tried to merge her sympathy, and her resolve to ignore any cause for
it, in one ambiguous murmur of deprecation, he dropped down on the bench
near which they had paused, and poured out the wretchedness of his soul.

It was a dreadful hour--an hour from which she emerged shrinking and
seared, as though her lids had been scorched by its actual glare. It was
not that she had never had premonitory glimpses of such an outbreak; but
rather because, here and there throughout the three months, the surface
of life had shown such ominous cracks and vapours that her fears had
always been on the alert for an upheaval. There had been moments when the
situation had presented itself under a homelier yet more vivid
image--that of a shaky vehicle, dashed by unbroken steeds over a bumping
road, while she cowered within, aware that the harness wanted mending,
and wondering what would give way first.  Well--everything had given way
now; and the wonder was that the crazy outfit had held together so long.
Her sense of being involved in the crash, instead of merely witnessing it
from the road, was intensified by the way in which Dorset, through his
furies of denunciation and wild reactions of self-contempt, made her feel
the need he had of her, the place she had taken in his life. But for her,
what ear would have been open to his cries?  And what hand but hers could
drag him up again to a footing of sanity and self-respect? All through
the stress of the struggle with him, she had been conscious of something
faintly maternal in her efforts to guide and uplift him. But for the
present, if he clung to her, it was not in order to be dragged up, but to
feel some one floundering in the depths with him: he wanted her to suffer
with him, not to help him to suffer less.

Happily for both, there was little physical strength to sustain his
frenzy. It left him, collapsed and breathing heavily, to an apathy so
deep and prolonged that Lily almost feared the passers-by would think it
the result of a seizure, and stop to offer their aid. But Monte Carlo is,
of all places, the one where the human bond is least close, and odd
sights are the least arresting. If a glance or two lingered on the
couple, no intrusive sympathy disturbed them; and it was Lily herself who
broke the silence by rising from her seat. With the clearing of her
vision the sweep of peril had extended, and she saw that the post of
danger was no longer at Dorset's side.

"If you won't go back, I must--don't make me leave you!" she urged.

But he remained mutely resistant, and she added: "What are you going to
do? You really can't sit here all night."

"I can go to an hotel. I can telegraph my lawyers." He sat up, roused by
a new thought. "By Jove, Selden's at Nice--I'll send for Selden!"

Lily, at this, reseated herself with a cry of alarm. "No, no, NO!" she
protested.

He swung round on her distrustfully. "Why not Selden? He's a lawyer isn't
he? One will do as well as another in a case like this."

"As badly as another, you mean. I thought you relied on ME to help you."

"You do--by being so sweet and patient with me. If it hadn't been for you
I'd have ended the thing long ago. But now it's got to end." He rose
suddenly, straightening himself with an effort.  "You can't want to see
me ridiculous."

She looked at him kindly. "That's just it." Then, after a moment's
pondering, almost to her own surprise she broke out with a flash of
inspiration: "Well, go over and see Mr. Selden. You'll have time to do it
before dinner."

"Oh, DINNER----" he mocked her; but she left him with the smiling
rejoinder: "Dinner on board, remember; we'll put it off till nine if you
like."

It was past four already; and when a cab had dropped her at the quay, and
she stood waiting for the gig to put off for her, she began to wonder
what had been happening on the yacht. Of Silverton's whereabouts there
had been no mention. Had he returned to the Sabrina? Or could Bertha--the
dread alternative sprang on her suddenly--could Bertha, left to herself,
have gone ashore to rejoin him? Lily's heart stood still at the thought.
All her concern had hitherto been for young Silverton, not only because,
in such affairs, the woman's instinct is to side with the man, but
because his case made a peculiar appeal to her sympathies. He was so
desperately in earnest, poor youth, and his earnestness was of so
different a quality from Bertha's, though hers too was desperate enough.
The difference was that Bertha was in earnest only about herself, while
he was in earnest about her.  But now, at the actual crisis, this
difference seemed to throw the weight of destitution on Bertha's side,
since at least he had her to suffer for, and she had only herself. At any
rate, viewed less ideally, all the disadvantages of such a situation were
for the woman; and it was to Bertha that Lily's sympathies now went out.
She was not fond of Bertha Dorset, but neither was she without a sense of
obligation, the heavier for having so little personal liking to sustain
it. Bertha had been kind to her, they had lived together, during the last
months, on terms of easy friendship, and the sense of friction of which
Lily had recently become aware seemed to make it the more urgent that she
should work undividedly in her friend's interest.

It was in Bertha's interest, certainly, that she had despatched Dorset to
consult with Lawrence Selden. Once the grotesqueness of the situation
accepted, she had seen at a glance that it was the safest in which Dorset
could find himself. Who but Selden could thus miraculously combine the
skill to save Bertha with the obligation of doing so? The consciousness
that much skill would be required made Lily rest thankfully in the
greatness of the obligation. Since he would HAVE to pull Bertha through
she could trust him to find a way; and she put the fulness of her trust
in the telegram she managed to send him on her way to the quay.

Thus far, then, Lily felt that she had done well; and the conviction
strengthened her for the task that remained. She and Bertha had never
been on confidential terms, but at such a crisis the barriers of reserve
must surely fall: Dorset's wild allusions to the scene of the morning
made Lily feel that they were down already, and that any attempt to
rebuild them would be beyond Bertha's strength. She pictured the poor
creature shivering behind her fallen defences and awaiting with suspense
the moment when she could take refuge in the first shelter that offered.
If only that shelter had not already offered itself elsewhere! As the gig
traversed the short distance between the quay and the yacht, Lily grew
more than ever alarmed at the possible consequences of her long absence.
What if the wretched Bertha, finding in all the long hours no soul to
turn to--but by this time Lily's eager foot was on the side-ladder, and
her first step on the Sabrina showed the worst of her apprehensions to be
unfounded; for there, in the luxurious shade of the after-deck, the
wretched Bertha, in full command of her usual attenuated elegance, sat
dispensing tea to the Duchess of Beltshire and Lord Hubert.

The sight filled Lily with such surprise that she felt that Bertha, at
least, must read its meaning in her look, and she was proportionately
disconcerted by the blankness of the look returned. But in an instant she
saw that Mrs. Dorset had, of necessity, to look blank before the others,
and that, to mitigate the effect of her own surprise, she must at once
produce some simple reason for it. The long habit of rapid transitions
made it easy for her to exclaim to the Duchess: "Why, I thought you'd
gone back to the Princess!" and this sufficed for the lady she addressed,
if it was hardly enough for Lord Hubert.

At least it opened the way to a lively explanation of how the Duchess
was, in fact, going back the next moment, but had first rushed out to the
yacht for a word with Mrs. Dorset on the subject of tomorrow's
dinner--the dinner with the Brys, to which Lord Hubert had finally
insisted on dragging them.

"To save my neck, you know!" he explained, with a glance that appealed to
Lily for some recognition of his promptness; and the Duchess added, with
her noble candour: "Mr. Bry has promised him a tip, and he says if we go
he'll pass it onto us."

This led to some final pleasantries, in which, as it seemed to Lily, Mrs.
Dorset bore her part with astounding bravery, and at the close of which
Lord Hubert, from half way down the side-ladder, called back, with an air
of numbering heads: "And of course we may count on Dorset too?"

"Oh, count on him," his wife assented gaily. She was keeping up well to
the last--but as she turned back from waving her adieux over the side,
Lily said to herself that the mask must drop and the soul of fear look
out.

Mrs. Dorset turned back slowly; perhaps she wanted time to steady her
muscles; at any rate, they were still under perfect control when,
dropping once more into her seat behind the tea-table, she remarked to
Miss Bart with a faint touch of irony: "I suppose I ought to say good
morning."

If it was a cue, Lily was ready to take it, though with only the vaguest
sense of what was expected of her in return. There was something
unnerving in the contemplation of Mrs. Dorset's composure, and she had to
force the light tone in which she answered: "I tried to see you this
morning, but you were not yet up."

"No--I got to bed late. After we missed you at the station I thought we
ought to wait for you till the last train." She spoke very gently, but
with just the least tinge of reproach.

"You missed us? You waited for us at the station?" Now indeed Lily was
too far adrift in bewilderment to measure the other's words or keep watch
on her own. "But I thought you didn't get to the station till after the
last train had left!"

Mrs. Dorset, examining her between lowered lids, met this with the
immediate query: "Who told you that?"

"George--I saw him just now in the gardens."

"Ah, is that George's version? Poor George--he was in no state to
remember what I told him. He had one of his worst attacks this morning,
and I packed him off to see the doctor. Do you know if he found him?"

Lily, still lost in conjecture, made no reply, and Mrs. Dorset settled
herself indolently in her seat. "He'll wait to see him; he was horribly
frightened about himself. It's very bad for him to be worried, and
whenever anything upsetting happens, it always brings on an attack."

This time Lily felt sure that a cue was being pressed on her; but it was
put forth with such startling suddenness, and with so incredible an air
of ignoring what it led up to, that she could only falter out doubtfully:
"Anything upsetting?"

"Yes--such as having you so conspicuously on his hands in the small
hours. You know, my dear, you're rather a big responsibility in such a
scandalous place after midnight."

At that--at the complete unexpectedness and the inconceivable audacity of
it--Lily could not restrain the tribute of an astonished laugh.

"Well, really--considering it was you who burdened him with the
responsibility!"

Mrs. Dorset took this with an exquisite mildness. "By not having the
superhuman cleverness to discover you in that frightful rush for the
train? Or the imagination to believe that you'd take it without us--you
and he all alone--instead of waiting quietly in the station till we DID
manage to meet you?"

Lily's colour rose: it was growing clear to her that Bertha was pursuing
an object, following a line she had marked out for herself.  Only, with
such a doom impending, why waste time in these childish efforts to avert
it? The puerility of the attempt disarmed Lily's indignation: did it not
prove how horribly the poor creature was frightened?

"No; by our simply all keeping together at Nice," she returned.

"Keeping together? When it was you who seized the first opportunity to
rush off with the Duchess and her friends? My dear Lily, you are not a
child to be led by the hand!"

"No--nor to be lectured, Bertha, really; if that's what you are doing to
me now."

Mrs. Dorset smiled on her reproachfully. "Lecture you--I? Heaven forbid!
I was merely trying to give you a friendly hint. But it's usually the
other way round, isn't it? I'm expected to take hints, not to give them:
I've positively lived on them all these last months."

"Hints--from me to you?" Lily repeated.

"Oh, negative ones merely--what not to be and to do and to see.  And I
think I've taken them to admiration. Only, my dear, if you'll let me say
so, I didn't understand that one of my negative duties was NOT to warn
you when you carried your imprudence too far."

A chill of fear passed over Miss Bart: a sense of remembered treachery
that was like the gleam of a knife in the dusk. But compassion, in a
moment, got the better of her instinctive recoil. What was this
outpouring of senseless bitterness but the tracked creature's attempt to
cloud the medium through which it was fleeing? It was on Lily's lips to
exclaim: "You poor soul, don't double and turn--come straight back to me,
and we'll find a way out!" But the words died under the impenetrable
insolence of Bertha's smile. Lily sat silent, taking the brunt of it
quietly, letting it spend itself on her to the last drop of its
accumulated falseness; then, without a word, she rose and went down to
her cabin.



Chapter 3

Miss Bart's telegram caught Lawrence Selden at the door of his hotel; and
having read it, he turned back to wait for Dorset. The message
necessarily left large gaps for conjecture; but all that he had recently
heard and seen made these but too easy to fill in. On the whole he was
surprised; for though he had perceived that the situation contained all
the elements of an explosion, he had often enough, in the range of his
personal experience, seen just such combinations subside into
harmlessness. Still, Dorset's spasmodic temper, and his wife's reckless
disregard of appearances, gave the situation a peculiar insecurity; and
it was less from the sense of any special relation to the case than from
a purely professional zeal, that Selden resolved to guide the pair to
safety. Whether, in the present instance, safety for either lay in
repairing so damaged a tie, it was no business of his to consider: he had
only, on general principles, to think of averting a scandal, and his
desire to avert it was increased by his fear of its involving Miss Bart.
There was nothing specific in this apprehension; he merely wished to
spare her the embarrassment of being ever so remotely connected with the
public washing of the Dorset linen.

How exhaustive and unpleasant such a process would be, he saw even more
vividly after his two hours' talk with poor Dorset. If anything came out
at all, it would be such a vast unpacking of accumulated moral rags as
left him, after his visitor had gone, with the feeling that he must fling
open the windows and have his room swept out. But nothing should come
out; and happily for his side of the case, the dirty rags, however pieced
together, could not, without considerable difficulty, be turned into a
homogeneous grievance. The torn edges did not always fit--there were
missing bits, there were disparities of size and colour, all of which it
was naturally Selden's business to make the most of in putting them under
his client's eye. But to a man in Dorset's mood the completest
demonstration could not carry conviction, and Selden saw that for the
moment all he could do was to soothe and temporize, to offer sympathy and
to counsel prudence. He let Dorset depart charged to the brim with the
sense that, till their next meeting, he must maintain a strictly
noncommittal attitude; that, in short, his share in the game consisted
for the present in looking on. Selden knew, however, that he could not
long keep such violences in equilibrium; and he promised to meet Dorset,
the next morning, at an hotel in Monte Carlo. Meanwhile he counted not a
little on the reaction of weakness and self-distrust that, in such
natures, follows on every unwonted expenditure of moral force; and his
telegraphic reply to Miss Bart consisted simply in the injunction:
"Assume that everything is as usual."

On this assumption, in fact, the early part of the following day was
lived through. Dorset, as if in obedience to Lily's imperative bidding,
had actually returned in time for a late dinner on the yacht. The repast
had been the most difficult moment of the day. Dorset was sunk in one of
the abysmal silences which so commonly followed on what his wife called
his "attacks" that it was easy, before the servants, to refer it to this
cause; but Bertha herself seemed, perversely enough, little disposed to
make use of this obvious means of protection. She simply left the brunt
of the situation on her husband's hands, as if too absorbed in a
grievance of her own to suspect that she might be the object of one
herself. To Lily this attitude was the most ominous, because the most
perplexing, element in the situation. As she tried to fan the weak
flicker of talk, to build up, again and again, the crumbling structure of
"appearances," her own attention was perpetually distracted by the
question: "What on earth can she be driving at?" There was something
positively exasperating in Bertha's attitude of isolated defiance. If
only she would have given her friend a hint they might still have worked
together successfully; but how could Lily be of use, while she was thus
obstinately shut out from participation? To be of use was what she
honestly wanted; and not for her own sake but for the Dorsets'. She had
not thought of her own situation at all: she was simply engrossed in
trying to put a little order in theirs. But the close of the short dreary
evening left her with a sense of effort hopelessly wasted. She had not
tried to see Dorset alone: she had positively shrunk from a renewal of
his confidences. It was Bertha whose confidence she sought, and who
should as eagerly have invited her own; and Bertha, as if in the
infatuation of self-destruction, was actually pushing away her rescuing
hand.

Lily, going to bed early, had left the couple to themselves; and it
seemed part of the general mystery in which she moved that more than an
hour should elapse before she heard Bertha walk down the silent passage
and regain her room. The morrow, rising on an apparent continuance of the
same conditions, revealed nothing of what had occurred between the
confronted pair. One fact alone outwardly proclaimed the change they were
all conspiring to ignore; and that was the non-appearance of Ned
Silverton. No one referred to it, and this tacit avoidance of the subject
kept it in the immediate foreground of consciousness. But there was
another change, perceptible only to Lily; and that was that Dorset now
avoided her almost as pointedly as his wife. Perhaps he was repenting his
rash outpourings of the previous day; perhaps only trying, in his clumsy
way, to conform to Selden's counsel to behave "as usual." Such
instructions no more make for easiness of attitude than the
photographer's behest to "look natural"; and in a creature as unconscious
as poor Dorset of the appearance he habitually presented, the struggle to
maintain a pose was sure to result in queer contortions.

It resulted, at any rate, in throwing Lily strangely on her own
resources. She had learned, on leaving her room, that Mrs. Dorset was
still invisible, and that Dorset had left the yacht early; and feeling
too restless to remain alone, she too had herself ferried ashore.
Straying toward the Casino, she attached herself to a group of
acquaintances from Nice, with whom she lunched, and in whose company she
was returning to the rooms when she encountered Selden crossing the
square. She could not, at the moment, separate herself definitely from
her party, who had hospitably assumed that she would remain with them
till they took their departure; but she found time for a momentary pause
of enquiry, to which he promptly returned: "I've seen him again--he's
just left me."

She waited before him anxiously. "Well? what has happened? What WILL
happen?"

"Nothing as yet--and nothing in the future, I think."

"It's over, then? It's settled? You're sure?"

He smiled. "Give me time. I'm not sure--but I'm a good deal surer." And
with that she had to content herself, and hasten on to the expectant
group on the steps.

Selden had in fact given her the utmost measure of his sureness, had even
stretched it a shade to meet the anxiety in her eyes.  And now, as he
turned away, strolling down the hill toward the station, that anxiety
remained with him as the visible justification of his own. It was not,
indeed, anything specific that he feared: there had been a literal truth
in his declaration that he did not think anything would happen. What
troubled him was that, though Dorset's attitude had perceptibly changed,
the change was not clearly to be accounted for. It had certainly not been
produced by Selden's arguments, or by the action of his own soberer
reason. Five minutes' talk sufficed to show that some alien influence had
been at work, and that it had not so much subdued his resentment as
weakened his will, so that he moved under it in a state of apathy, like a
dangerous lunatic who has been drugged.  Temporarily, no doubt, however
exerted, it worked for the general safety: the question was how long it
would last, and by what kind of reaction it was likely to be followed. On
these points Selden could gain no light; for he saw that one effect of
the transformation had been to shut him off from free communion with
Dorset. The latter, indeed, was still moved by the irresistible desire to
discuss his wrong; but, though he revolved about it with the same forlorn
tenacity, Selden was aware that something always restrained him from full
expression. His state was one to produce first weariness and then
impatience in his hearer; and when their talk was over, Selden began to
feel that he had done his utmost, and might justifiably wash his hands of
the sequel.

It was in this mind that he had been making his way back to the station
when Miss Bart crossed his path; but though, after his brief word with
her, he kept mechanically on his course, he was conscious of a gradual
change in his purpose. The change had been produced by the look in her
eyes; and in his eagerness to define the nature of that look, he dropped
into a seat in the gardens, and sat brooding upon the question.  It was
natural enough, in all conscience, that she should appear anxious: a
young woman placed, in the close intimacy of a yachting-cruise, between a
couple on the verge of disaster, could hardly, aside from her concern for
her friends, be insensible to the awkwardness of her own position. The
worst of it was that, in interpreting Miss Bart's state of mind, so many
alternative readings were possible; and one of these, in Selden's
troubled mind, took the ugly form suggested by Mrs. Fisher. If the girl
was afraid, was she afraid for herself or for her friends? And to what
degree was her dread of a catastrophe intensified by the sense of being
fatally involved in it? The burden of offence lying manifestly with Mrs.
Dorset, this conjecture seemed on the face of it gratuitously unkind; but
Selden knew that in the most one-sided matrimonial quarrel there are
generally counter-charges to be brought, and that they are brought with
the greater audacity where the original grievance is so emphatic. Mrs.
Fisher had not hesitated to suggest the likelihood of Dorset's marrying
Miss Bart if "anything happened"; and though Mrs. Fisher's conclusions
were notoriously rash, she was shrewd enough in reading the signs from
which they were drawn. Dorset had apparently shown marked interest in the
girl, and this interest might be used to cruel advantage in his wife's
struggle for rehabilitation. Selden knew that Bertha would fight to the
last round of powder: the rashness of her conduct was illogically
combined with a cold determination to escape its consequences. She could
be as unscrupulous in fighting for herself as she was reckless in
courting danger, and whatever came to her hand at such moments was likely
to be used as a defensive missile. He did not, as yet, see clearly just
what course she was likely to take, but his perplexity increased his
apprehension, and with it the sense that, before leaving, he must speak
again with Miss Bart. Whatever her share in the situation--and he had
always honestly tried to resist judging her by her surroundings--however
free she might be from any personal connection with it, she would be
better out of the way of a possible crash; and since she had appealed to
him for help, it was clearly his business to tell her so.

This decision at last brought him to his feet, and carried him back to
the gambling rooms, within whose doors he had seen her disappearing; but
a prolonged exploration of the crowd failed to put him on her traces. He
saw instead, to his surprise, Ned Silverton loitering somewhat
ostentatiously about the tables; and the discovery that this actor in the
drama was not only hovering in the wings, but actually inviting the
exposure of the footlights, though it might have seemed to imply that all
peril was over, served rather to deepen Selden's sense of foreboding.
Charged with this impression he returned to the square, hoping to see
Miss Bart move across it, as every one in Monte Carlo seemed inevitably
to do at least a dozen times a day; but here again he waited vainly for a
glimpse of her, and the conclusion was slowly forced on him that she had
gone back to the Sabrina. It would be difficult to follow her there, and
still more difficult, should he do so, to contrive the opportunity for a
private word; and he had almost decided on the unsatisfactory alternative
of writing, when the ceaseless diorama of the square suddenly unrolled
before him the figures of Lord Hubert and Mrs. Bry.

Hailing them at once with his question, he learned from Lord Hubert that
Miss Bart had just returned to the Sabrina in Dorset's company; an
announcement so evidently disconcerting to him that Mrs. Bry, after a
glance from her companion, which seemed to act like the pressure on a
spring, brought forth the prompt proposal that he should come and meet
his friends at dinner that evening--"At Becassin's--a little dinner to
the Duchess," she flashed out before Lord Hubert had time to remove the
pressure.

Selden's sense of the privilege of being included in such company brought
him early in the evening to the door of the restaurant, where he paused
to scan the ranks of diners approaching down the brightly lit terrace.
There, while the Brys hovered within over the last agitating alternatives
of the MENU, he kept watch for the guests from the Sabrina, who at length
rose on the horizon in company with the Duchess, Lord and Lady Skiddaw
and the Stepneys.  From this group it was easy for him to detach Miss
Bart on the pretext of a moment's glance into one of the brilliant shops
along the terrace, and to say to her, while they lingered together in the
white dazzle of a jeweller's window: "I stopped over to see you--to beg
of you to leave the yacht."

The eyes she turned on him showed a quick gleam of her former fear. "To
leave--? What do you mean? What has happened?"

"Nothing. But if anything should, why be in the way of it?"

The glare from the jeweller's window, deepening the pallour of her face,
gave to its delicate lines the sharpness of a tragic mask.  "Nothing
will, I am sure; but while there's even a doubt left, how can you think I
would leave Bertha?"

The words rang out on a note of contempt--was it possibly of contempt for
himself? Well, he was willing to risk its renewal to the extent of
insisting, with an undeniable throb of added interest: "You have yourself
to think of, you know--" to which, with a strange fall of sadness in her
voice, she answered, meeting his eyes: "If you knew how little difference
that makes!"

"Oh, well, nothing WILL happen," he said, more for his own reassurance
than for hers; and "Nothing, nothing, of course!" she valiantly assented,
as they turned to overtake their companions.

In the thronged restaurant, taking their places about Mrs. Bry's
illuminated board, their confidence seemed to gain support from the
familiarity of their surroundings. Here were Dorset and his wife once
more presenting their customary faces to the world, she engrossed in
establishing her relation with an intensely new gown, he shrinking with
dyspeptic dread from the multiplied solicitations of the MENU. The mere
fact that they thus showed themselves together, with the utmost openness
the place afforded, seemed to declare beyond a doubt that their
differences were composed. How this end had been attained was still
matter for wonder, but it was clear that for the moment Miss Bart rested
confidently in the result; and Selden tried to achieve the same view by
telling himself that her opportunities for observation had been ampler
than his own.

Meanwhile, as the dinner advanced through a labyrinth of courses, in
which it became clear that Mrs. Bry had occasionally broken away from
Lord Hubert's restraining hand, Selden's general watchfulness began to
lose itself in a particular study of Miss Bart. It was one of the days
when she was so handsome that to be handsome was enough, and all the
rest--her grace, her quickness, her social felicities--seemed the
overflow of a bounteous nature. But what especially struck him was the
way in which she detached herself, by a hundred undefinable shades, from
the persons who most abounded in her own style. It was in just such
company, the fine flower and complete expression of the state she aspired
to, that the differences came out with special poignancy, her grace
cheapening the other women's smartness as her finely-discriminated
silences made their chatter dull. The strain of the last hours had
restored to her face the deeper eloquence which Selden had lately missed
in it, and the bravery of her words to him still fluttered in her voice
and eyes. Yes, she was matchless--it was the one word for her; and he
could give his admiration the freer play because so little personal
feeling remained in it. His real detachment from her had taken place, not
at the lurid moment of disenchantment, but now, in the sober after-light
of discrimination, where he saw her definitely divided from him by the
crudeness of a choice which seemed to deny the very differences he felt
in her. It was before him again in its completeness--the choice in which
she was content to rest: in the stupid costliness of the food and the
showy dulness of the talk, in the freedom of speech which never arrived
at wit and the freedom of act which never made for romance. The strident
setting of the restaurant, in which their table seemed set apart in a
special glare of publicity, and the presence at it of little Dabham of
the "Riviera Notes," emphasized the ideals of a world where
conspicuousness passed for distinction, and the society column had become
the roll of fame.

It was as the immortalizer of such occasions that little Dabham, wedged
in modest watchfulness between two brilliant neighbours, suddenly became
the centre of Selden's scrutiny. How much did he know of what was going
on, and how much, for his purpose, was still worth finding out? His
little eyes were like tentacles thrown out to catch the floating
intimations with which, to Selden, the air at moments seemed thick; then
again it cleared to its normal emptiness, and he could see nothing in it
for the journalist but leisure to note the elegance of the ladies' gowns.
Mrs. Dorset's, in particular, challenged all the wealth of Mr. Dabham's
vocabulary: it had surprises and subtleties worthy of what he would have
called "the literary style." At first, as Selden had noticed, it had been
almost too preoccupying to its wearer; but now she was in full command of
it, and was even producing her effects with unwonted freedom. Was she
not, indeed, too free, too fluent, for perfect naturalness? And was not
Dorset, to whom his glance had passed by a natural transition, too
jerkily wavering between the same extremes?  Dorset indeed was always
jerky; but it seemed to Selden that tonight each vibration swung him
farther from his centre.

The dinner, meanwhile, was moving to its triumphant close, to the evident
satisfaction of Mrs. Bry, who, throned in apoplectic majesty between Lord
Skiddaw and Lord Hubert, seemed in spirit to be calling on Mrs. Fisher to
witness her achievement. Short of Mrs. Fisher her audience might have
been called complete; for the restaurant was crowded with persons mainly
gathered there for the purpose of spectatorship, and accurately posted as
to the names and faces of the celebrities they had come to see. Mrs. Bry,
conscious that all her feminine guests came under that heading, and that
each one looked her part to admiration, shone on Lily with all the
pent-up gratitude that Mrs. Fisher had failed to deserve. Selden,
catching the glance, wondered what part Miss Bart had played in
organizing the entertainment. She did, at least, a great deal to adorn
it; and as he watched the bright security with which she bore herself, he
smiled to think that he should have fancied her in need of help. Never
had she appeared more serenely mistress of the situation than when, at
the moment of dispersal, detaching herself a little from the group about
the table, she turned with a smile and a graceful slant of the shoulders
to receive her cloak from Dorset.

The dinner had been protracted over Mr. Bry's exceptional cigars and a
bewildering array of liqueurs, and many of the other tables were empty;
but a sufficient number of diners still lingered to give relief to the
leave-taking of Mrs. Bry's distinguished guests. This ceremony was drawn
out and complicated by the fact that it involved, on the part of the
Duchess and Lady Skiddaw, definite farewells, and pledges of speedy
reunion in Paris, where they were to pause and replenish their wardrobes
on the way to England. The quality of Mrs. Bry's hospitality, and of the
tips her husband had presumably imparted, lent to the manner of the
English ladies a general effusiveness which shed the rosiest light over
their hostess's future. In its glow Mrs. Dorset and the Stepneys were
also visibly included, and the whole scene had touches of intimacy worth
their weight in gold to the watchful pen of Mr. Dabham.

A glance at her watch caused the Duchess to exclaim to her sister that
they had just time to dash for their train, and the flurry of this
departure over, the Stepneys, who had their motor at the door, offered to
convey the Dorsets and Miss Bart to the quay.  The offer was accepted,
and Mrs. Dorset moved away with her husband in attendance.  Miss Bart had
lingered for a last word with Lord Hubert, and Stepney, on whom Mr. Bry
was pressing a final, and still more expensive, cigar, called out: "Come
on, Lily, if you're going back to the yacht."

Lily turned to obey; but as she did so, Mrs. Dorset, who had paused on
her way out, moved a few steps back toward the table.

"Miss Bart is not going back to the yacht," she said in a voice of
singular distinctness.

A startled look ran from eye to eye; Mrs. Bry crimsoned to the verge of
congestion, Mrs. Stepney slipped nervously behind her husband, and
Selden, in the general turmoil of his sensations, was mainly conscious of
a longing to grip Dabham by the collar and fling him out into the street.

Dorset, meanwhile, had stepped back to his wife's side. His face was
white, and he looked about him with cowed angry eyes.  "Bertha!--Miss
Bart . . . this is some misunderstanding . . .  some mistake . . ."

"Miss Bart remains here," his wife rejoined incisively. "And, I think,
George, we had better not detain Mrs. Stepney any longer."

Miss Bart, during this brief exchange of words, remained in admirable
erectness, slightly isolated from the embarrassed group about her. She
had paled a little under the shock of the insult, but the discomposure of
the surrounding faces was not reflected in her own. The faint disdain of
her smile seemed to lift her high above her antagonist's reach, and it
was not till she had given Mrs. Dorset the full measure of the distance
between them that she turned and extended her hand to her hostess.

"I am joining the Duchess tomorrow," she explained, "and it seemed easier
for me to remain on shore for the night."

She held firmly to Mrs. Bry's wavering eye while she gave this
explanation, but when it was over Selden saw her send a tentative glance
from one to another of the women's faces. She read their incredulity in
their averted looks, and in the mute wretchedness of the men behind them,
and for a miserable half-second he thought she quivered on the brink of
failure. Then, turning to him with an easy gesture, and the pale bravery
of her recovered smile--"Dear Mr. Selden," she said, "you promised to see
me to my cab."



Outside, the sky was gusty and overcast, and as Lily and Selden moved
toward the deserted gardens below the restaurant, spurts of warm rain
blew fitfully against their faces. The fiction of the cab had been
tacitly abandoned; they walked on in silence, her hand on his arm, till
the deeper shade of the gardens received them, and pausing beside a
bench, he said: "Sit down a moment."

She dropped to the seat without answering, but the electric lamp at the
bend of the path shed a gleam on the struggling misery of her face.
Selden sat down beside her, waiting for her to speak, fearful lest any
word he chose should touch too roughly on her wound, and kept also from
free utterance by the wretched doubt which had slowly renewed itself
within him. What had brought her to this pass? What weakness had placed
her so abominably at her enemy's mercy? And why should Bertha Dorset have
turned into an enemy at the very moment when she so obviously needed the
support of her sex? Even while his nerves raged at the subjection of
husbands to their wives, and at the cruelty of women to their kind,
reason obstinately harped on the proverbial relation between smoke and
fire. The memory of Mrs. Fisher's hints, and the corroboration of his own
impressions, while they deepened his pity also increased his constraint,
since, whichever way he sought a free outlet for sympathy, it was blocked
by the fear of committing a blunder.

Suddenly it struck him that his silence must seem almost as accusatory as
that of the men he had despised for turning from her; but before he could
find the fitting word she had cut him short with a question.

"Do you know of a quiet hotel? I can send for my maid in the morning."

"An hotel--HERE--that you can go to alone? It's not possible."

She met this with a pale gleam of her old playfulness. "What IS, then?
It's too wet to sleep in the gardens."

"But there must be some one----"

"Some one to whom I can go? Of course--any number--but at THIS hour?  You
see my change of plan was rather sudden----"

"Good God--if you'd listened to me!" he cried, venting his helplessness
in a burst of anger.

She still held him off with the gentle mockery of her smile. "But haven't
I?" she rejoined. "You advised me to leave the yacht, and I'm leaving it."

He saw then, with a pang of self-reproach, that she meant neither to
explain nor to defend herself; that by his miserable silence he had
forfeited all chance of helping her, and that the decisive hour was past.

She had risen, and stood before him in a kind of clouded majesty, like
some deposed princess moving tranquilly to exile.

"Lily!" he exclaimed, with a note of despairing appeal; but--"Oh, not
now," she gently admonished him; and then, in all the sweetness of her
recovered composure: "Since I must find shelter somewhere, and since
you're so kindly here to help me----"

He gathered himself up at the challenge. "You will do as I tell you?
There's but one thing, then; you must go straight to your cousins, the
Stepneys."

"Oh--" broke from her with a movement of instinctive resistance; but he
insisted: "Come--it's late, and you must appear to have gone there
directly."

He had drawn her hand into his arm, but she held him back with a last
gesture of protest. "I can't--I can't--not that--you don't know Gwen: you
mustn't ask me!"

"I MUST ask you--you must obey me," he persisted, though infected at
heart by her own fear.

Her voice sank to a whisper: "And if she refuses?"--but, "Oh, trust
me--trust me!" he could only insist in return; and yielding to his touch,
she let him lead her back in silence to the edge of the square.

In the cab they continued to remain silent through the brief drive which
carried them to the illuminated portals of the Stepneys' hotel.  Here he
left her outside, in the darkness of the raised hood, while his name was
sent up to Stepney, and he paced the showy hall, awaiting the latter's
descent. Ten minutes later the two men passed out together between the
gold-laced custodians of the threshold; but in the vestibule Stepney drew
up with a last flare of reluctance.

"It's understood, then?" he stipulated nervously, with his hand on
Selden's arm. "She leaves tomorrow by the early train--and my wife's
asleep, and can't be disturbed."



Chapter 4

The blinds of Mrs. Peniston's drawing-room were drawn down against the
oppressive June sun, and in the sultry twilight the faces of her
assembled relatives took on a fitting shadow of bereavement. They were
all there: Van Alstynes, Stepneys and Melsons--even a stray Peniston or
two, indicating, by a greater latitude in dress and manner, the fact of
remoter relationship and more settled hopes. The Peniston side was, in
fact, secure in the knowledge that the bulk of Mr. Peniston's property
"went back"; while the direct connection hung suspended on the disposal
of his widow's private fortune and on the uncertainty of its extent.
Jack Stepney, in his new character as the richest nephew, tacitly took
the lead, emphasizing his importance by the deeper gloss of his mourning
and the subdued authority of his manner; while his wife's bored attitude
and frivolous gown proclaimed the heiress's disregard of the
insignificant interests at stake. Old Ned Van Alstyne, seated next to her
in a coat that made affliction dapper, twirled his white moustache to
conceal the eager twitch of his lips; and Grace Stepney, red-nosed and
smelling of crape, whispered emotionally to Mrs. Herbert Melson: "I
couldn't BEAR to see the Niagara anywhere else!"

A rustle of weeds and quick turning of heads hailed the opening of the
door, and Lily Bart appeared, tall and noble in her black dress, with
Gerty Farish at her side. The women's faces, as she paused
interrogatively on the threshold, were a study in hesitation. One or two
made faint motions of recognition, which might have been subdued either
by the solemnity of the scene, or by the doubt as to how far the others
meant to go; Mrs. Jack Stepney gave a careless nod, and Grace Stepney,
with a sepulchral gesture, indicated a seat at her side. But Lily,
ignoring the invitation, as well as Jack Stepney's official attempt to
direct her, moved across the room with her smooth free gait, and seated
herself in a chair which seemed to have been purposely placed apart from
the others.

It was the first time that she had faced her family since her return from
Europe, two weeks earlier; but if she perceived any uncertainty in their
welcome, it served only to add a tinge of irony to the usual composure of
her bearing. The shock of dismay with which, on the dock, she had heard
from Gerty Farish of Mrs. Peniston's sudden death, had been mitigated,
almost at once, by the irrepressible thought that now, at last, she would
be able to pay her debts. She had looked forward with considerable
uneasiness to her first encounter with her aunt.  Mrs. Peniston had
vehemently opposed her niece's departure with the Dorsets, and had marked
her continued disapproval by not writing during Lily's absence. The
certainty that she had heard of the rupture with the Dorsets made the
prospect of the meeting more formidable; and how should Lily have
repressed a quick sense of relief at the thought that, instead of
undergoing the anticipated ordeal, she had only to enter gracefully on a
long-assured inheritance? It had been, in the consecrated phrase, "always
understood" that Mrs. Peniston was to provide handsomely for her niece;
and in the latter's mind the understanding had long since crystallized
into fact.

"She gets everything, of course--I don't see what we're here for," Mrs.
Jack Stepney remarked with careless loudness to Ned Van Alstyne; and the
latter's deprecating murmur--"Julia was always a just woman"--might have
been interpreted as signifying either acquiescence or doubt.

"Well, it's only about four hundred thousand," Mrs. Stepney rejoined with
a yawn; and Grace Stepney, in the silence produced by the lawyer's
preliminary cough, was heard to sob out: "They won't find a towel
missing--I went over them with her the very day----"

Lily, oppressed by the close atmosphere, and the stifling odour of fresh
mourning, felt her attention straying as Mrs. Peniston's lawyer, solemnly
erect behind the Buhl table at the end of the room, began to rattle
through the preamble of the will.

"It's like being in church," she reflected, wondering vaguely where Gwen
Stepney had got such an awful hat. Then she noticed how stout Jack had
grown--he would soon be almost as plethoric as Herbert Melson, who sat a
few feet off, breathing puffily as he leaned his black-gloved hands on
his stick.

"I wonder why rich people always grow fat--I suppose it's because there's
nothing to worry them. If I inherit, I shall have to be careful of my
figure," she mused, while the lawyer droned on through a labyrinth of
legacies. The servants came first, then a few charitable institutions,
then several remoter Melsons and Stepneys, who stirred consciously as
their names rang out, and then subsided into a state of impassiveness
befitting the solemnity of the occasion. Ned Van Alstyne, Jack Stepney,
and a cousin or two followed, each coupled with the mention of a few
thousands: Lily wondered that Grace Stepney was not among them.  Then she
heard her own name--"to my niece Lily Bart ten thousand dollars--" and
after that the lawyer again lost himself in a coil of unintelligible
periods, from which the concluding phrase flashed out with startling
distinctness: "and the residue of my estate to my dear cousin and
name-sake, Grace Julia Stepney."

There was a subdued gasp of surprise, a rapid turning of heads, and a
surging of sable figures toward the corner in which Miss Stepney wailed
out her sense of unworthiness through the crumpled ball of a black-edged
handkerchief.

Lily stood apart from the general movement, feeling herself for the first
time utterly alone. No one looked at her, no one seemed aware of her
presence; she was probing the very depths of insignificance. And under
her sense of the collective indifference came the acuter pang of hopes
deceived.  Disinherited--she had been disinherited--and for Grace
Stepney!  She met Gerty's lamentable eyes, fixed on her in a despairing
effort at consolation, and the look brought her to herself. There was
something to be done before she left the house: to be done with all the
nobility she knew how to put into such gestures. She advanced to the
group about Miss Stepney, and holding out her hand said simply: "Dear
Grace, I am so glad."

The other ladies had fallen back at her approach, and a space created
itself about her. It widened as she turned to go, and no one advanced to
fill it up. She paused a moment, glancing about her, calmly taking the
measure of her situation. She heard some one ask a question about the
date of the will; she caught a fragment of the lawyer's answer--something
about a sudden summons, and an "earlier instrument." Then the tide of
dispersal began to drift past her; Mrs. Jack Stepney and Mrs. Herbert
Melson stood on the doorstep awaiting their motor; a sympathizing group
escorted Grace Stepney to the cab it was felt to be fitting she should
take, though she lived but a street or two away; and Miss Bart and Gerty
found themselves almost alone in the purple drawing-room, which more than
ever, in its stuffy dimness, resembled a well-kept family vault, in which
the last corpse had just been decently deposited.



In Gerty Farish's sitting-room, whither a hansom had carried the two
friends, Lily dropped into a chair with a faint sound of laughter: it
struck her as a humorous coincidence that her aunt's legacy should so
nearly represent the amount of her debt to Trenor. The need of
discharging that debt had reasserted itself with increased urgency since
her return to America, and she spoke her first thought in saying to the
anxiously hovering Gerty: "I wonder when the legacies will be paid."

But Miss Farish could not pause over the legacies; she broke into a
larger indignation. "Oh, Lily, it's unjust; it's cruel--Grace Stepney
must FEEL she has no right to all that money!"

"Any one who knew how to please Aunt Julia has a right to her money,"
Miss Bart rejoined philosophically.

"But she was devoted to you--she led every one to think--" Gerty checked
herself in evident embarrassment, and Miss Bart turned to her with a
direct look. "Gerty, be honest: this will was made only six weeks ago.
She had heard of my break with the Dorsets?"

"Every one heard, of course, that there had been some disagreement--some
misunderstanding----"

"Did she hear that Bertha turned me off the yacht?"

"Lily!"

"That was what happened, you know. She said I was trying to marry George
Dorset. She did it to make him think she was jealous.  Isn't that what
she told Gwen Stepney?"

"I don't know--I don't listen to such horrors."

"I MUST listen to them--I must know where I stand." She paused, and again
sounded a faint note of derision. "Did you notice the women? They were
afraid to snub me while they thought I was going to get the
money--afterward they scuttled off as if I had the plague." Gerty
remained silent, and she continued: "I stayed on to see what would
happen. They took their cue from Gwen Stepney and Lulu Melson--I saw them
watching to see what Gwen would do.--Gerty, I must know just what is
being said of me."

"I tell you I don't listen----"

"One hears such things without listening." She rose and laid her resolute
hands on Miss Farish's shoulders. "Gerty, are people going to cut me?"

"Your FRIENDS, Lily--how can you think it?"

"Who are one's friends at such a time? Who, but you, you poor trustful
darling? And heaven knows what YOU suspect me of!" She kissed Gerty with
a whimsical murmur. "You'd never let it make any difference--but then
you're fond of criminals, Gerty! How about the irreclaimable ones,
though? For I'm absolutely impenitent, you know."

She drew herself up to the full height of her slender majesty, towering
like some dark angel of defiance above the troubled Gerty, who could only
falter out: "Lily, Lily--how can you laugh about such things?"

"So as not to weep, perhaps. But no--I'm not of the tearful order. I
discovered early that crying makes my nose red, and the knowledge has
helped me through several painful episodes." She took a restless turn
about the room, and then, reseating herself, lifted the bright mockery of
her eyes to Gerty's anxious countenance.

"I shouldn't have minded, you know, if I'd got the money--" and at Miss
Farish's protesting "Oh!" she repeated calmly: "Not a straw, my dear;
for, in the first place, they wouldn't have quite dared to ignore me; and
if they had, it wouldn't have mattered, because I should have been
independent of them. But now--!" The irony faded from her eyes, and she
bent a clouded face upon her friend.

"How can you talk so, Lily? Of course the money ought to have been yours,
but after all that makes no difference. The important thing----" Gerty
paused, and then continued firmly: "The important thing is that you
should clear yourself--should tell your friends the whole truth."

"The whole truth?" Miss Bart laughed. "What is truth? Where a woman is
concerned, it's the story that's easiest to believe. In this case it's a
great deal easier to believe Bertha Dorset's story than mine, because she
has a big house and an opera box, and it's convenient to be on good terms
with her."

Miss Farish still fixed her with an anxious gaze. "But what IS your
story, Lily? I don't believe any one knows it yet."

"My story?--I don't believe I know it myself. You see I never thought of
preparing a version in advance as Bertha did--and if I had, I don't think
I should take the trouble to use it now."

But Gerty continued with her quiet reasonableness: "I don't want a
version prepared in advance--but I want you to tell me exactly what
happened from the beginning."

"From the beginning?" Miss Bart gently mimicked her. "Dear Gerty, how
little imagination you good people have! Why, the beginning was in my
cradle, I suppose--in the way I was brought up, and the things I was
taught to care for. Or no--I won't blame anybody for my faults: I'll say
it was in my blood, that I got it from some wicked pleasure-loving
ancestress, who reacted against the homely virtues of New Amsterdam, and
wanted to be back at the court of the Charleses!" And as Miss Farish
continued to press her with troubled eyes, she went on impatiently: "You
asked me just now for the truth--well, the truth about any girl is that
once she's talked about she's done for; and the more she explains her
case the worse it looks.--My good Gerty, you don't happen to have a
cigarette about you?"



In her stuffy room at the hotel to which she had gone on landing, Lily
Bart that evening reviewed her situation. It was the last week in June,
and none of her friends were in town. The few relatives who had stayed
on, or returned, for the reading of Mrs. Peniston's will, had taken
flight again that afternoon to Newport or Long Island; and not one of
them had made any proffer of hospitality to Lily. For the first time in
her life she found herself utterly alone except for Gerty Farish. Even at
the actual moment of her break with the Dorsets she had not had so keen a
sense of its consequences, for the Duchess of Beltshire, hearing of the
catastrophe from Lord Hubert, had instantly offered her protection, and
under her sheltering wing Lily had made an almost triumphant progress to
London. There she had been sorely tempted to linger on in a society which
asked of her only to amuse and charm it, without enquiring too curiously
how she had acquired her gift for doing so; but Selden, before they
parted, had pressed on her the urgent need of returning at once to her
aunt, and Lord Hubert, when he presently reappeared in London, abounded
in the same counsel. Lily did not need to be told that the Duchess's
championship was not the best road to social rehabilitation, and as she
was besides aware that her noble defender might at any moment drop her in
favour of a new PROTEGEE, she reluctantly decided to return to America.
But she had not been ten minutes on her native shore before she realized
that she had delayed too long to regain it. The Dorsets, the Stepneys,
the Brys--all the actors and witnesses in the miserable drama--had
preceded her with their version of the case; and, even had she seen the
least chance of gaining a hearing for her own, some obscure disdain and
reluctance would have restrained her.  She knew it was not by
explanations and counter-charges that she could ever hope to recover her
lost standing; but even had she felt the least trust in their efficacy,
she would still have been held back by the feeling which had kept her
from defending herself to Gerty Farish--a feeling that was half pride and
half humiliation. For though she knew she had been ruthlessly sacrificed
to Bertha Dorset's determination to win back her husband, and though her
own relation to Dorset had been that of the merest good-fellowship, yet
she had been perfectly aware from the outset that her part in the affair
was, as Carry Fisher brutally put it, to distract Dorset's attention from
his wife.  That was what she was "there for": it was the price she had
chosen to pay for three months of luxury and freedom from care.  Her
habit of resolutely facing the facts, in her rare moments of
introspection, did not now allow her to put any false gloss on the
situation. She had suffered for the very faithfulness with which she had
carried out her part of the tacit compact, but the part was not a
handsome one at best, and she saw it now in all the ugliness of failure.

She saw, too, in the same uncompromising light, the train of consequences
resulting from that failure; and these became clearer to her with every
day of her weary lingering in town. She stayed on partly for the comfort
of Gerty Farish's nearness, and partly for lack of knowing where to go.
She understood well enough the nature of the task before her. She must
set out to regain, little by little, the position she had lost; and the
first step in the tedious task was to find out, as soon as possible, on
how many of her friends she could count. Her hopes were mainly centred on
Mrs. Trenor, who had treasures of easy-going tolerance for those who were
amusing or useful to her, and in the noisy rush of whose existence the
still small voice of detraction was slow to make itself heard. But Judy,
though she must have been apprised of Miss Bart's return, had not even
recognized it by the formal note of condolence which her friend's
bereavement demanded.  Any advance on Lily's side might have been
perilous: there was nothing to do but to trust to the happy chance of an
accidental meeting, and Lily knew that, even so late in the season, there
was always a hope of running across her friends in their frequent
passages through town.

To this end she assiduously showed herself at the restaurants they
frequented, where, attended by the troubled Gerty, she lunched
luxuriously, as she said, on her expectations.

"My dear Gerty, you wouldn't have me let the head-waiter see that I've
nothing to live on but Aunt Julia's legacy? Think of Grace Stepney's
satisfaction if she came in and found us lunching on cold mutton and tea!
What sweet shall we have today, dear--COUPE JACQUES or PECHES A LA MELBA?"

She dropped the MENU abruptly, with a quick heightening of colour, and
Gerty, following her glance, was aware of the advance, from an inner
room, of a party headed by Mrs. Trenor and Carry Fisher. It was
impossible for these ladies and their companions--among whom Lily had at
once distinguished both Trenor and Rosedale--not to pass, in going out,
the table at which the two girls were seated; and Gerty's sense of the
fact betrayed itself in the helpless trepidation of her manner.  Miss
Bart, on the contrary, borne forward on the wave of her buoyant grace,
and neither shrinking from her friends nor appearing to lie in wait for
them, gave to the encounter the touch of naturalness which she could
impart to the most strained situations. Such embarrassment as was shown
was on Mrs. Trenor's side, and manifested itself in the mingling of
exaggerated warmth with imperceptible reservations. Her loudly affirmed
pleasure at seeing Miss Bart took the form of a nebulous generalization,
which included neither enquiries as to her future nor the expression of a
definite wish to see her again. Lily, well-versed in the language of
these omissions, knew that they were equally intelligible to the other
members of the party: even Rosedale, flushed as he was with the
importance of keeping such company, at once took the temperature of Mrs.
Trenor's cordiality, and reflected it in his off-hand greeting of Miss
Bart. Trenor, red and uncomfortable, had cut short his salutations on the
pretext of a word to say to the head-waiter; and the rest of the group
soon melted away in Mrs. Trenor's wake.

It was over in a moment--the waiter, MENU in hand, still hung on the
result of the choice between COUPE JACQUES and PECHES A LA MELBA--but
Miss Bart, in the interval, had taken the measure of her fate. Where Judy
Trenor led, all the world would follow; and Lily had the doomed sense of
the castaway who has signalled in vain to fleeing sails.

In a flash she remembered Mrs. Trenor's complaints of Carry Fisher's
rapacity, and saw that they denoted an unexpected acquaintance with her
husband's private affairs. In the large tumultuous disorder of the life
at Bellomont, where no one seemed to have time to observe any one else,
and private aims and personal interests were swept along unheeded in the
rush of collective activities, Lily had fancied herself sheltered from
inconvenient scrutiny; but if Judy knew when Mrs. Fisher borrowed money
of her husband, was she likely to ignore the same transaction on Lily's
part? If she was careless of his affections she was plainly jealous of
his pocket; and in that fact Lily read the explanation of her rebuff. The
immediate result of these conclusions was the passionate resolve to pay
back her debt to Trenor. That obligation discharged, she would have but a
thousand dollars of Mrs. Peniston's legacy left, and nothing to live on
but her own small income, which was considerably less than Gerty Farish's
wretched pittance; but this consideration gave way to the imperative
claim of her wounded pride.  She must be quits with the Trenors first;
after that she would take thought for the future.

In her ignorance of legal procrastinations she had supposed that her
legacy would be paid over within a few days of the reading of her aunt's
will; and after an interval of anxious suspense, she wrote to enquire the
cause of the delay. There was another interval before Mrs. Peniston's
lawyer, who was also one of the executors, replied to the effect that,
some questions having arisen relative to the interpretation of the will,
he and his associates might not be in a position to pay the legacies till
the close of the twelvemonth legally allotted for their settlement.
Bewildered and indignant, Lily resolved to try the effect of a personal
appeal; but she returned from her expedition with a sense of the
powerlessness of beauty and charm against the unfeeling processes of the
law. It seemed intolerable to live on for another year under the weight
of her debt; and in her extremity she decided to turn to Miss Stepney,
who still lingered in town, immersed in the delectable duty of "going
over" her benefactress's effects. It was bitter enough for Lily to ask a
favour of Grace Stepney, but the alternative was bitterer still; and one
morning she presented herself at Mrs. Peniston's, where Grace, for the
facilitation of her pious task, had taken up a provisional abode.

The strangeness of entering as a suppliant the house where she had so
long commanded, increased Lily's desire to shorten the ordeal; and when
Miss Stepney entered the darkened drawing-room, rustling with the best
quality of crape, her visitor went straight to the point: would she be
willing to advance the amount of the expected legacy?

Grace, in reply, wept and wondered at the request, bemoaned the
inexorableness of the law, and was astonished that Lily had not realized
the exact similarity of their positions. Did she think that only the
payment of the legacies had been delayed? Why, Miss Stepney herself had
not received a penny of her inheritance, and was paying rent--yes,
actually!--for the privilege of living in a house that belonged to her.
She was sure it was not what poor dear cousin Julia would have
wished--she had told the executors so to their faces; but they were
inaccessible to reason, and there was nothing to do but to wait. Let Lily
take example by her, and be patient--let them both remember how
beautifully patient cousin Julia had always been.

Lily made a movement which showed her imperfect assimilation of this
example. "But you will have everything, Grace--it would be easy for you
to borrow ten times the amount I am asking for."

"Borrow--easy for me to borrow?" Grace Stepney rose up before her in
sable wrath. "Do you imagine for a moment that I would raise money on my
expectations from cousin Julia, when I know so well her unspeakable
horror of every transaction of the sort? Why, Lily, if you must know the
truth, it was the idea of your being in debt that brought on her
illness--you remember she had a slight attack before you sailed. Oh, I
don't know the particulars, of course--I don't WANT to know them--but
there were rumours about your affairs that made her most unhappy--no one
could be with her without seeing that. I can't help it if you are
offended by my telling you this now--if I can do anything to make you
realize the folly of your course, and how deeply SHE disapproved of it, I
shall feel it is the truest way of making up to you for her loss."



Chapter 5

It seemed to Lily, as Mrs. Peniston's door closed on her, that she was
taking a final leave of her old life. The future stretched before her
dull and bare as the deserted length of Fifth Avenue, and opportunities
showed as meagrely as the few cabs trailing in quest of fares that did
not come. The completeness of the analogy was, however, disturbed as she
reached the sidewalk by the rapid approach of a hansom which pulled up at
sight of her.

From beneath its luggage-laden top, she caught the wave of a signalling
hand; and the next moment Mrs. Fisher, springing to the street, had
folded her in a demonstrative embrace.

"My dear, you don't mean to say you're still in town? When I saw you the
other day at Sherry's I didn't have time to ask----" She broke off, and
added with a burst of frankness: "The truth is I was HORRID, Lily, and
I've wanted to tell you so ever since."

"Oh----" Miss Bart protested, drawing back from her penitent clasp; but
Mrs. Fisher went on with her usual directness: "Look here, Lily, don't
let's beat about the bush: half the trouble in life is caused by
pretending there isn't any. That's not my way, and I can only say I'm
thoroughly ashamed of myself for following the other women's lead. But
we'll talk of that by and bye--tell me now where you're staying and what
your plans are. I don't suppose you're keeping house in there with Grace
Stepney, eh?--and it struck me you might be rather at loose ends."

In Lily's present mood there was no resisting the honest friendliness of
this appeal, and she said with a smile: "I am at loose ends for the
moment, but Gerty Farish is still in town, and she's good enough to let
me be with her whenever she can spare the time."

Mrs. Fisher made a slight grimace. "H'm--that's a temperate joy.  Oh, I
know--Gerty's a trump, and worth all the rest of us put together; but A
LA LONGUE you're used to a little higher seasoning, aren't you, dear?
And besides, I suppose she'll be off herself before long--the first of
August, you say? Well, look here, you can't spend your summer in town;
we'll talk of that later too. But meanwhile, what do you say to putting a
few things in a trunk and coming down with me to the Sam Gormers'
tonight?"

And as Lily stared at the breathless suddenness of the suggestion, she
continued with her easy laugh: "You don't know them and they don't know
you; but that don't make a rap of difference. They've taken the Van
Alstyne place at Roslyn, and I've got CARTE BLANCHE to bring my friends
down there--the more the merrier. They do things awfully well, and
there's to be rather a jolly party there this week----" she broke off,
checked by an undefinable change in Miss Bart's expression. "Oh, I don't
mean YOUR particular set, you know: rather a different crowd, but very
good fun. The fact is, the Gormers have struck out on a line of their
own: what they want is to have a good time, and to have it in their own
way. They gave the other thing a few months' trial, under my
distinguished auspices, and they were really doing extremely
well--getting on a good deal faster than the Brys, just because they
didn't care as much--but suddenly they decided that the whole business
bored them, and that what they wanted was a crowd they could really feel
at home with. Rather original of them, don't you think so? Mattie Gormer
HAS got aspirations still; women always have; but she's awfully
easy-going, and Sam won't be bothered, and they both like to be the most
important people in sight, so they've started a sort of continuous
performance of their own, a kind of social Coney Island, where everybody
is welcome who can make noise enough and doesn't put on airs.  I think
it's awfully good fun myself--some of the artistic set, you know, any
pretty actress that's going, and so on. This week, for instance, they
have Audrey Anstell, who made such a hit last spring in 'The Winning of
Winny'; and Paul Morpeth--he's painting Mattie Gormer--and the Dick
Bellingers, and Kate Corby--well, every one you can think of who's jolly
and makes a row. Now don't stand there with your nose in the air, my
dear--it will be a good deal better than a broiling Sunday in town, and
you'll find clever people as well as noisy ones--Morpeth, who admires
Mattie enormously, always brings one or two of his set."

Mrs. Fisher drew Lily toward the hansom with friendly authority.  "Jump
in now, there's a dear, and we'll drive round to your hotel and have your
things packed, and then we'll have tea, and the two maids can meet us at
the train."



It was a good deal better than a broiling Sunday in town--of that no
doubt remained to Lily as, reclining in the shade of a leafy verandah,
she looked seaward across a stretch of greensward picturesquely dotted
with groups of ladies in lace raiment and men in tennis flannels. The
huge Van Alstyne house and its rambling dependencies were packed to their
fullest capacity with the Gormers' week-end guests, who now, in the
radiance of the Sunday forenoon, were dispersing themselves over the
grounds in quest of the various distractions the place afforded:
distractions ranging from tennis-courts to shooting-galleries, from
bridge and whiskey within doors to motors and steam-launches without.
Lily had the odd sense of having been caught up into the crowd as
carelessly as a passenger is gathered in by an express train. The blonde
and genial Mrs. Gormer might, indeed, have figured the conductor, calmly
assigning seats to the rush of travellers, while Carry Fisher represented
the porter pushing their bags into place, giving them their numbers for
the dining-car, and warning them when their station was at hand. The
train, meanwhile, had scarcely slackened speed--life whizzed on with a
deafening' rattle and roar, in which one traveller at least found a
welcome refuge from the sound of her own thoughts.  The Gormer MILIEU
represented a social out-skirt which Lily had always fastidiously
avoided; but it struck her, now that she was in it, as only a flamboyant
copy of her own world, a caricature approximating the real thing as the
"society play" approaches the manners of the drawing-room. The people
about her were doing the same things as the Trenors, the Van Osburghs and
the Dorsets: the difference lay in a hundred shades of aspect and manner,
from the pattern of the men's waistcoats to the inflexion of the women's
voices. Everything was pitched in a higher key, and there was more of
each thing: more noise, more colour, more champagne, more
familiarity--but also greater good-nature, less rivalry, and a fresher
capacity for enjoyment.

Miss Bart's arrival had been welcomed with an uncritical friendliness
that first irritated her pride and then brought her to a sharp sense of
her own situation--of the place in life which, for the moment, she must
accept and make the best of.  These people knew her story--of that her
first long talk with Carry Fisher had left no doubt: she was publicly
branded as the heroine of a "queer" episode--but instead of shrinking
from her as her own friends had done, they received her without question
into the easy promiscuity of their lives. They swallowed her past as
easily as they did Miss Anstell's, and with no apparent sense of any
difference in the size of the mouthful: all they asked was that she
should--in her own way, for they recognized a diversity of
gifts--contribute as much to the general amusement as that graceful
actress, whose talents, when off the stage, were of the most varied
order. Lily felt at once that any tendency to be "stuck-up," to mark a
sense of differences and distinctions, would be fatal to her continuance
in the Gormer set. To be taken in on such terms--and into such a
world!--was hard enough to the lingering pride in her; but she realized,
with a pang of self-contempt, that to be excluded from it would, after
all, be harder still. For, almost at once, she had felt the insidious
charm of slipping back into a life where every material difficulty was
smoothed away. The sudden escape from a stifling hotel in a dusty
deserted city to the space and luxury of a great country-house fanned by
sea breezes, had produced a state of moral lassitude agreeable enough
after the nervous tension and physical discomfort of the past weeks. For
the moment she must yield to the refreshment her senses craved--after
that she would reconsider her situation, and take counsel with her
dignity. Her enjoyment of her surroundings was, indeed, tinged by the
unpleasant consideration that she was accepting the hospitality and
courting the approval of people she had disdained under other conditions.
But she was growing less sensitive on such points: a hard glaze of
indifference was fast forming over her delicacies and susceptibilities,
and each concession to expediency hardened the surface a little more.

On the Monday, when the party disbanded with uproarious adieux, the
return to town threw into stronger relief the charms of the life she was
leaving. The other guests were dispersing to take up the same existence
in a different setting: some at Newport, some at Bar Harbour, some in the
elaborate rusticity of an Adirondack camp. Even Gerty Farish, who
welcomed Lily's return with tender solicitude, would soon be preparing to
join the aunt with whom she spent her summers on Lake George: only Lily
herself remained without plan or purpose, stranded in a backwater of the
great current of pleasure. But Carry Fisher, who had insisted on
transporting her to her own house, where she herself was to perch for a
day or two on the way to the Brys' camp, came to the rescue with a new
suggestion.

"Look here, Lily--I'll tell you what it is: I want you to take my place
with Mattie Gormer this summer. They're taking a party out to Alaska next
month in their private car, and Mattie, who is the laziest woman alive,
wants me to go with them, and relieve her of the bother of arranging
things; but the Brys want me too--oh, yes, we've made it up: didn't I
tell you?--and, to put it frankly, though I like the Gormers best,
there's more profit for me in the Brys. The fact is, they want to try
Newport this summer, and if I can make it a success for them they--well,
they'll make it a success for me." Mrs. Fisher clasped her hands
enthusiastically. "Do you know, Lily, the more I think of my idea the
better I like it--quite as much for you as for myself. The Gormers have
both taken a tremendous fancy to you, and the trip to Alaska
is--well--the very thing I should want for you just at present."

Miss Bart lifted her eyes with a keen glance. "To take me out of my
friends' way, you mean?" she said quietly; and Mrs. Fisher responded with
a deprecating kiss: "To keep you out of their sight till they realize how
much they miss you."



Miss Bart went with the Gormers to Alaska; and the expedition, if it did
not produce the effect anticipated by her friend, had at least the
negative advantage of removing her from the fiery centre of criticism and
discussion. Gerty Farish had opposed the plan with all the energy of her
somewhat inarticulate nature. She had even offered to give up her visit
to Lake George, and remain in town with Miss Bart, if the latter would
renounce her journey; but Lily could disguise her real distaste for this
plan under a sufficiently valid reason.

"You dear innocent, don't you see," she protested, "that Carry is quite
right, and that I must take up my usual life, and go about among people
as much as possible? If my old friends choose to believe lies about me I
shall have to make new ones, that's all; and you know beggars mustn't be
choosers. Not that I don't like Mattie Gormer--I DO like her: she's kind
and honest and unaffected; and don't you suppose I feel grateful to her
for making me welcome at a time when, as you've yourself seen, my own
family have unanimously washed their hands of me?"

Gerty shook her head, mutely unconvinced. She felt not only that Lily was
cheapening herself by making use of an intimacy she would never have
cultivated from choice, but that, in drifting back now to her former
manner of life, she was forfeiting her last chance of ever escaping from
it. Gerty had but an obscure conception of what Lily's actual experience
had been: but its consequences had established a lasting hold on her pity
since the memorable night when she had offered up her own secret hope to
her friend's extremity. To characters like Gerty's such a sacrifice
constitutes a moral claim on the part of the person in whose behalf it
has been made. Having once helped Lily, she must continue to help her;
and helping her, must believe in her, because faith is the main-spring of
such natures. But even if Miss Bart, after her renewed taste of the
amenities of life, could have returned to the barrenness of a New York
August, mitigated only by poor Gerty's presence, her worldly wisdom would
have counselled her against such an act of abnegation. She knew that
Carry Fisher was right: that an opportune absence might be the first step
toward rehabilitation, and that, at any rate, to linger on in town out of
season was a fatal admission of defeat.  From the Gormers' tumultuous
progress across their native continent, she returned with an altered view
of her situation.  The renewed habit of luxury--the daily waking to an
assured absence of care and presence of material ease--gradually blunted
her appreciation of these values, and left her more conscious of the void
they could not fill. Mattie Gormer's undiscriminating good-nature, and
the slap-dash sociability of her friends, who treated Lily precisely as
they treated each other--all these characteristic notes of difference
began to wear upon her endurance; and the more she saw to criticize in
her companions, the less justification she found for making use of them.
The longing to get back to her former surroundings hardened to a fixed
idea; but with the strengthening of her purpose came the inevitable
perception that, to attain it, she must exact fresh concessions from her
pride. These, for the moment, took the unpleasant form of continuing to
cling to her hosts after their return from Alaska. Little as she was in
the key of their MILIEU, her immense social facility, her long habit of
adapting herself to others without suffering her own outline to be
blurred, the skilled manipulation of all the polished implements of her
craft, had won for her an important place in the Gormer group. If their
resonant hilarity could never be hers, she contributed a note of easy
elegance more valuable to Mattie Gormer than the louder passages of the
band. Sam Gormer and his special cronies stood indeed a little in awe of
her; but Mattie's following, headed by Paul Morpeth, made her feel that
they prized her for the very qualities they most conspicuously lacked. If
Morpeth, whose social indolence was as great as his artistic activity,
had abandoned himself to the easy current of the Gormer existence, where
the minor exactions of politeness were unknown or ignored, and a man
could either break his engagements, or keep them in a painting-jacket and
slippers, he still preserved his sense of differences, and his
appreciation of graces he had no time to cultivate. During the
preparations for the Brys' TABLEAUX he had been immensely struck by
Lily's plastic possibilities--"not the face: too self-controlled for
expression; but the rest of her--gad, what a model she'd make!"--and
though his abhorrence of the world in which he had seen her was too great
for him to think of seeking her there, he was fully alive to the
privilege of having her to look at and listen to while he lounged in
Mattie Gormer's dishevelled drawing-room.

Lily had thus formed, in the tumult of her surroundings, a little nucleus
of friendly relations which mitigated the crudeness of her course in
lingering with the Gormers after their return. Nor was she without pale
glimpses of her own world, especially since the breaking-up of the
Newport season had set the social current once more toward Long Island.
Kate Corby, whose tastes made her as promiscuous as Carry Fisher was
rendered by her necessities, occasionally descended on the Gormers,
where, after a first stare of surprise, she took Lily's presence almost
too much as a matter of course. Mrs. Fisher, too, appearing frequently in
the neighbourhood, drove over to impart her experiences and give Lily
what she called the latest report from the weather-bureau; and the
latter, who had never directly invited her confidence, could yet talk
with her more freely than with Gerty Farish, in whose presence it was
impossible even to admit the existence of much that Mrs. Fisher
conveniently took for granted.

Mrs. Fisher, moreover, had no embarrassing curiosity. She did not wish to
probe the inwardness of Lily's situation, but simply to view it from the
outside, and draw her conclusions accordingly; and these conclusions, at
the end of a confidential talk, she summed up to her friend in the
succinct remark: "You must marry as soon as you can."

Lily uttered a faint laugh--for once Mrs. Fisher lacked originality.  "Do
you mean, like Gerty Farish, to recommend the unfailing panacea of 'a
good man's love'?"

"No--I don't think either of my candidates would answer to that
description," said Mrs. Fisher after a pause of reflection.

"Either? Are there actually two?"

"Well, perhaps I ought to say one and a half--for the moment."

Miss Bart received this with increasing amusement. "Other things being
equal, I think I should prefer a half-husband: who is he?"

"Don't fly out at me till you hear my reasons--George Dorset."

"Oh----" Lily murmured reproachfully; but Mrs. Fisher pressed on
unrebuffed. "Well, why not? They had a few weeks' honeymoon when they
first got back from Europe, but now things are going badly with them
again. Bertha has been behaving more than ever like a madwoman, and
George's powers of credulity are very nearly exhausted. They're at their
place here, you know, and I spent last Sunday with them. It was a ghastly
party--no one else but poor Neddy Silverton, who looks like a
galley-slave (they used to talk of my making that poor boy unhappy!)--and
after luncheon George carried me off on a long walk, and told me the end
would have to come soon."

Miss Bart made an incredulous gesture. "As far as that goes, the end will
never come--Bertha will always know how to get him back when she wants
him."

Mrs. Fisher continued to observe her tentatively. "Not if he has any one
else to turn to! Yes--that's just what it comes to: the poor creature
can't stand alone. And I remember him such a good fellow, full of life
and enthusiasm." She paused, and went on, dropping her glance from
Lily's: "He wouldn't stay with her ten minutes if he KNEW----"

"Knew----?" Miss Bart repeated.

"What YOU must, for instance--with the opportunities you've had!  If he
had positive proof, I mean----"

Lily interrupted her with a deep blush of displeasure. "Please let us
drop the subject, Carry: it's too odious to me." And to divert her
companion's attention she added, with an attempt at lightness: "And your
second candidate? We must not forget him."

Mrs. Fisher echoed her laugh. "I wonder if you'll cry out just as loud if
I say--Sim Rosedale?"

Miss Bart did not cry out: she sat silent, gazing thoughtfully at her
friend. The suggestion, in truth, gave expression to a possibility which,
in the last weeks, had more than once recurred to her; but after a moment
she said carelessly: "Mr. Rosedale wants a wife who can establish him in
the bosom of the Van Osburghs and Trenors."

Mrs. Fisher caught her up eagerly. "And so YOU could--with his money!
Don't you see how beautifully it would work out for you both?"

"I don't see any way of making him see it," Lily returned, with a laugh
intended to dismiss the subject.

But in reality it lingered with her long after Mrs. Fisher had taken
leave. She had seen very little of Rosedale since her annexation by the
Gormers, for he was still steadily bent on penetrating to the inner
Paradise from which she was now excluded; but once or twice, when nothing
better offered, he had turned up for a Sunday, and on these occasions he
had left her in no doubt as to his view of her situation.  That he still
admired her was, more than ever, offensively evident; for in the Gormer
circle, where he expanded as in his native element, there were no
puzzling conventions to check the full expression of his approval. But it
was in the quality of his admiration that she read his shrewd estimate of
her case. He enjoyed letting the Gormers see that he had known "Miss
Lily"--she was "Miss Lily" to him now--before they had had the faintest
social existence: enjoyed more especially impressing Paul Morpeth with
the distance to which their intimacy dated back. But he let it be felt
that that intimacy was a mere ripple on the surface of a rushing social
current, the kind of relaxation which a man of large interests and
manifold preoccupations permits himself in his hours of ease.

The necessity of accepting this view of their past relation, and of
meeting it in the key of pleasantry prevalent among her new friends, was
deeply humiliating to Lily. But she dared less than ever to quarrel with
Rosedale. She suspected that her rejection rankled among the most
unforgettable of his rebuffs, and the fact that he knew something of her
wretched transaction with Trenor, and was sure to put the basest
construction on it, seemed to place her hopelessly in his power. Yet at
Carry Fisher's suggestion a new hope had stirred in her. Much as she
disliked Rosedale, she no longer absolutely despised him. For he was
gradually attaining his object in life, and that, to Lily, was always
less despicable than to miss it. With the slow unalterable persistency
which she had always felt in him, he was making his way through the dense
mass of social antagonisms. Already his wealth, and the masterly use he
had made of it, were giving him an enviable prominence in the world of
affairs, and placing Wall Street under obligations which only Fifth
Avenue could repay. In response to these claims, his name began to figure
on municipal committees and charitable boards; he appeared at banquets to
distinguished strangers, and his candidacy at one of the fashionable
clubs was discussed with diminishing opposition. He had figured once or
twice at the Trenor dinners, and had learned to speak with just the right
note of disdain of the big Van Osburgh crushes; and all he now needed was
a wife whose affiliations would shorten the last tedious steps of his
ascent.  It was with that object that, a year earlier, he had fixed his
affections on Miss Bart; but in the interval he had mounted nearer to the
goal, while she had lost the power to abbreviate the remaining steps of
the way. All this she saw with the clearness of vision that came to her
in moments of despondency. It was success that dazzled her--she could
distinguish facts plainly enough in the twilight of failure. And the
twilight, as she now sought to pierce it, was gradually lighted by a
faint spark of reassurance. Under the utilitarian motive of Rosedale's
wooing she had felt, clearly enough, the heat of personal inclination.
She would not have detested him so heartily had she not known that he
dared to admire her. What, then, if the passion persisted, though the
other motive had ceased to sustain it? She had never even tried to please
him--he had been drawn to her in spite of her manifest disdain. What if
she now chose to exert the power which, even in its passive state, he had
felt so strongly? What if she made him marry her for love, now that he
had no other reason for marrying her?



Chapter 6

As became persons of their rising consequence, the Gormers were engaged
in building a country-house on Long Island; and it was a part of Miss
Bart's duty to attend her hostess on frequent visits of inspection to the
new estate. There, while Mrs. Gormer plunged into problems of lighting
and sanitation, Lily had leisure to wander, in the bright autumn air,
along the tree-fringed bay to which the land declined.  Little as she was
addicted to solitude, there had come to be moments when it seemed a
welcome escape from the empty noises of her life. She was weary of being
swept passively along a current of pleasure and business in which she had
no share; weary of seeing other people pursue amusement and squander
money, while she felt herself of no more account among them than an
expensive toy in the hands of a spoiled child.

It was in this frame of mind that, striking back from the shore one
morning into the windings of an unfamiliar lane, she came suddenly upon
the figure of George Dorset. The Dorset place was in the immediate
neighbourhood of the Gormers' newly-acquired estate, and in her
motor-flights thither with Mrs. Gormer, Lily had caught one or two
passing glimpses of the couple; but they moved in so different an orbit
that she had not considered the possibility of a direct encounter.

Dorset, swinging along with bent head, in moody abstraction, did not see
Miss Bart till he was close upon her; but the sight, instead of bringing
him to a halt, as she had half-expected, sent him toward her with an
eagerness which found expression in his opening words.

"Miss Bart!--You'll shake hands, won't you? I've been hoping to meet
you--I should have written to you if I'd dared." His face, with its
tossed red hair and straggling moustache, had a driven uneasy look, as
though life had become an unceasing race between himself and the thoughts
at his heels.

The look drew a word of compassionate greeting from Lily, and he pressed
on, as if encouraged by her tone: "I wanted to apologize--to ask you to
forgive me for the miserable part I played----"

She checked him with a quick gesture. "Don't let us speak of it: I was
very sorry for you," she said, with a tinge of disdain which, as she
instantly perceived, was not lost on him.

He flushed to his haggard eyes, flushed so cruelly that she repented the
thrust. "You might well be; you don't know--you must let me explain. I
was deceived: abominably deceived----"

"I am still more sorry for you, then," she interposed, without irony;
"but you must see that I am not exactly the person with whom the subject
can be discussed."

He met this with a look of genuine wonder. "Why not? Isn't it to you, of
all people, that I owe an explanation----"

"No explanation is necessary: the situation was perfectly clear to me."

"Ah----" he murmured, his head drooping again, and his irresolute hand
switching at the underbrush along the lane. But as Lily made a movement
to pass on, he broke out with fresh vehemence: "Miss Bart, for God's sake
don't turn from me! We used to be good friends--you were always kind to
me--and you don't know how I need a friend now."

The lamentable weakness of the words roused a motion of pity in Lily's
breast. She too needed friends--she had tasted the pang of loneliness;
and her resentment of Bertha Dorset's cruelty softened her heart to the
poor wretch who was after all the chief of Bertha's victims.

"I still wish to be kind; I feel no ill-will toward you," she said.  "But
you must understand that after what has happened we can't be friends
again--we can't see each other."

"Ah, you ARE kind--you're merciful--you always were!" He fixed his
miserable gaze on her. "But why can't we be friends--why not, when I've
repented in dust and ashes? Isn't it hard that you should condemn me to
suffer for the falseness, the treachery of others? I was punished enough
at the time--is there to be no respite for me?"

"I should have thought you had found complete respite in the
reconciliation which was effected at my expense," Lily began, with
renewed impatience; but he broke in imploringly: "Don't put it in that
way--when that's been the worst of my punishment. My God! what could I
do--wasn't I powerless? You were singled out as a sacrifice: any word I
might have said would have been turned against you----"

"I have told you I don't blame you; all I ask you to understand is that,
after the use Bertha chose to make of me--after all that her behaviour
has since implied--it's impossible that you and I should meet."

He continued to stand before her, in his dogged weakness. "Is it--need it
be? Mightn't there be circumstances----?" he checked himself, slashing at
the wayside weeds in a wider radius. Then he began again: "Miss Bart,
listen--give me a minute. If we're not to meet again, at least let me
have a hearing now. You say we can't be friends after--after what has
happened. But can't I at least appeal to your pity? Can't I move you if I
ask you to think of me as a prisoner--a prisoner you alone can set free?"

Lily's inward start betrayed itself in a quick blush: was it possible
that this was really the sense of Carry Fisher's adumbrations?

"I can't see how I can possibly be of any help to you," she murmured,
drawing back a little from the mounting excitement of his look.

Her tone seemed to sober him, as it had so often done in his stormiest
moments. The stubborn lines of his face relaxed, and he said, with an
abrupt drop to docility: "You WOULD see, if you'd be as merciful as you
used to be: and heaven knows I've never needed it more!"

She paused a moment, moved in spite of herself by this reminder of her
influence over him. Her fibres had been softened by suffering, and the
sudden glimpse into his mocked and broken life disarmed her contempt for
his weakness.

"I am very sorry for you--I would help you willingly; but you must have
other friends, other advisers."

"I never had a friend like you," he answered simply. "And besides--can't
you see?--you're the only person"--his voice dropped to a whisper--"the
only person who knows."

Again she felt her colour change; again her heart rose in precipitate
throbs to meet what she felt was coming. He lifted his eyes to her
entreatingly. "You do see, don't you? You understand? I'm desperate--I'm
at the end of my tether. I want to be free, and you can free me. I know
you can. You don't want to keep me bound fast in hell, do you? You can't
want to take such a vengeance as that. You were always kind--your eyes
are kind now. You say you're sorry for me. Well, it rests with you to
show it; and heaven knows there's nothing to keep you back. You
understand, of course--there wouldn't be a hint of publicity--not a sound
or a syllable to connect you with the thing. It would never come to that,
you know: all I need is to be able to say definitely: 'I know this--and
this--and this'--and the fight would drop, and the way be cleared, and
the whole abominable business swept out of sight in a second."

He spoke pantingly, like a tired runner, with breaks of exhaustion
between his words; and through the breaks she caught, as through the
shifting rents of a fog, great golden vistas of peace and safety. For
there was no mistaking the definite intention behind his vague appeal;
she could have filled up the blanks without the help of Mrs. Fisher's
insinuations. Here was a man who turned to her in the extremity of his
loneliness and his humiliation: if she came to him at such a moment he
would be hers with all the force of his deluded faith. And the power to
make him so lay in her hand--lay there in a completeness he could not
even remotely conjecture. Revenge and rehabilitation might be hers at a
stroke--there was something dazzling in the completeness of the
opportunity.

She stood silent, gazing away from him down the autumnal stretch of the
deserted lane. And suddenly fear possessed her--fear of herself, and of
the terrible force of the temptation. All her past weaknesses were like
so many eager accomplices drawing her toward the path their feet had
already smoothed. She turned quickly, and held out her hand to Dorset.

"Goodbye--I'm sorry; there's nothing in the world that I can do."

"Nothing? Ah, don't say that," he cried; "say what's true: that you
abandon me like the others. You, the only creature who could have saved
me!"

"Goodbye--goodbye," she repeated hurriedly; and as she moved away she
heard him cry out on a last note of entreaty: "At least you'll let me see
you once more?"



Lily, on regaining the Gormer grounds, struck rapidly across the lawn
toward the unfinished house, where she fancied that her hostess might be
speculating, not too resignedly, on the cause of her delay; for, like
many unpunctual persons, Mrs. Gormer disliked to be kept waiting.

As Miss Bart reached the avenue, however, she saw a smart phaeton with a
high-stepping pair disappear behind the shrubbery in the direction of the
gate; and on the doorstep stood Mrs. Gormer, with a glow of retrospective
pleasure on her open countenance. At sight of Lily the glow deepened to
an embarrassed red, and she said with a slight laugh: "Did you see my
visitor? Oh, I thought you came back by the avenue. It was Mrs. George
Dorset--she said she'd dropped in to make a neighbourly call."

Lily met the announcement with her usual composure, though her experience
of Bertha's idiosyncrasies would not have led her to include the
neighbourly instinct among them; and Mrs. Gormer, relieved to see that
she gave no sign of surprise, went on with a deprecating laugh: "Of
course what really brought her was curiosity--she made me take her all
over the house. But no one could have been nicer--no airs, you know, and
so good-natured: I can quite see why people think her so fascinating."

This surprising event, coinciding too completely with her meeting with
Dorset to be regarded as contingent upon it, had yet immediately struck
Lily with a vague sense of foreboding. It was not in Bertha's habits to
be neighbourly, much less to make advances to any one outside the
immediate circle of her affinities. She had always consistently ignored
the world of outer aspirants, or had recognized its individual members
only when prompted by motives of self-interest; and the very
capriciousness of her condescensions had, as Lily was aware, given them
special value in the eyes of the persons she distinguished. Lily saw this
now in Mrs. Gormer's unconcealable complacency, and in the happy
irrelevance with which, for the next day or two, she quoted Bertha's
opinions and speculated on the origin of her gown. All the secret
ambitions which Mrs. Gormer's native indolence, and the attitude of her
companions, kept in habitual abeyance, were now germinating afresh in the
glow of Bertha's advances; and whatever the cause of the latter, Lily saw
that, if they were followed up, they were likely to have a disturbing
effect upon her own future.

She had arranged to break the length of her stay with her new friends by
one or two visits to other acquaintances as recent; and on her return
from this somewhat depressing excursion she was immediately conscious
that Mrs. Dorset's influence was still in the air. There had been another
exchange of visits, a tea at a country-club, an encounter at a hunt ball;
there was even a rumour of an approaching dinner, which Mattie Gormer,
with an unnatural effort at discretion, tried to smuggle out of the
conversation whenever Miss Bart took part in it.

The latter had already planned to return to town after a farewell Sunday
with her friends; and, with Gerty Farish's aid, had discovered a small
private hotel where she might establish herself for the winter.  The
hotel being on the edge of a fashionable neighbourhood, the price of the
few square feet she was to occupy was considerably in excess of her
means; but she found a justification for her dislike of poorer quarters
in the argument that, at this particular juncture, it was of the utmost
importance to keep up a show of prosperity. In reality, it was impossible
for her, while she had the means to pay her way for a week ahead, to
lapse into a form of existence like Gerty Farish's. She had never been so
near the brink of insolvency; but she could at least manage to meet her
weekly hotel bill, and having settled the heaviest of her previous debts
out of the money she had received from Trenor, she had a still fair
margin of credit to go upon. The situation, however, was not agreeable
enough to lull her to complete unconsciousness of its insecurity.  Her
rooms, with their cramped outlook down a sallow vista of brick walls and
fire-escapes, her lonely meals in the dark restaurant with its surcharged
ceiling and haunting smell of coffee--all these material discomforts,
which were yet to be accounted as so many privileges soon to be
withdrawn, kept constantly before her the disadvantages of her state; and
her mind reverted the more insistently to Mrs. Fisher's counsels.  Beat
about the question as she would, she knew the outcome of it was that she
must try to marry Rosedale; and in this conviction she was fortified by
an unexpected visit from George Dorset.

She found him, on the first Sunday after her return to town, pacing her
narrow sitting-room to the imminent peril of the few knick-knacks with
which she had tried to disguise its plush exuberances; but the sight of
her seemed to quiet him, and he said meekly that he hadn't come to bother
her--that he asked only to be allowed to sit for half an hour and talk of
anything she liked. In reality, as she knew, he had but one subject:
himself and his wretchedness; and it was the need of her sympathy that
had drawn him back. But he began with a pretence of questioning her about
herself, and as she replied, she saw that, for the first time, a faint
realization of her plight penetrated the dense surface of his
self-absorption. Was it possible that her old beast of an aunt had
actually cut her off? That she was living alone like this because there
was no one else for her to go to, and that she really hadn't more than
enough to keep alive on till the wretched little legacy was paid? The
fibres of sympathy were nearly atrophied in him, but he was suffering so
intensely that he had a faint glimpse of what other sufferings might
mean--and, as she perceived, an almost simultaneous perception of the way
in which her particular misfortunes might serve him.

When at length she dismissed him, on the pretext that she must dress for
dinner, he lingered entreatingly on the threshold to blurt out: "It's
been such a comfort--do say you'll let me see you again--" But to this
direct appeal it was impossible to give an assent; and she said with
friendly decisiveness: "I'm sorry--but you know why I can't."

He coloured to the eyes, pushed the door shut, and stood before her
embarrassed but insistent. "I know how you might, if you would--if things
were different--and it lies with you to make them so. It's just a word to
say, and you put me out of my misery!"

Their eyes met, and for a second she trembled again with the nearness of
the temptation. "You're mistaken; I know nothing; I saw nothing," she
exclaimed, striving, by sheer force of reiteration, to build a barrier
between herself and her peril; and as he turned away, groaning out "You
sacrifice us both," she continued to repeat, as if it were a charm: "I
know nothing--absolutely nothing."



Lily had seen little of Rosedale since her illuminating talk with Mrs.
Fisher, but on the two or three occasions when they had met she was
conscious of having distinctly advanced in his favour.  There could be no
doubt that he admired her as much as ever, and she believed it rested
with herself to raise his admiration to the point where it should bear
down the lingering counsels of expediency. The task was not an easy one;
but neither was it easy, in her long sleepless nights, to face the
thought of what George Dorset was so clearly ready to offer.  Baseness
for baseness, she hated the other least: there were even moments when a
marriage with Rosedale seemed the only honourable solution of her
difficulties. She did not indeed let her imagination range beyond the day
of plighting: after that everything faded into a haze of material
well-being, in which the personality of her benefactor remained
mercifully vague. She had learned, in her long vigils, that there were
certain things not good to think of, certain midnight images that must at
any cost be exorcised--and one of these was the image of herself as
Rosedale's wife.

Carry Fisher, on the strength, as she frankly owned, of the Brys' Newport
success, had taken for the autumn months a small house at Tuxedo; and
thither Lily was bound on the Sunday after Dorset's visit.  Though it was
nearly dinner-time when she arrived, her hostess was still out, and the
firelit quiet of the small silent house descended on her spirit with a
sense of peace and familiarity. It may be doubted if such an emotion had
ever before been evoked by Carry Fisher's surroundings; but, contrasted
to the world in which Lily had lately lived, there was an air of repose
and stability in the very placing of the furniture, and in the quiet
competence of the parlour-maid who led her up to her room. Mrs. Fisher's
unconventionality was, after all, a merely superficial divergence from an
inherited social creed, while the manners of the Gormer circle
represented their first attempt to formulate such a creed for themselves.

It was the first time since her return from Europe that Lily had found
herself in a congenial atmosphere, and the stirring of familiar
associations had almost prepared her, as she descended the stairs before
dinner, to enter upon a group of her old acquaintances. But this
expectation was instantly checked by the reflection that the friends who
remained loyal were precisely those who would be least willing to expose
her to such encounters; and it was hardly with surprise that she found,
instead, Mr. Rosedale kneeling domestically on the drawing-room hearth
before his hostess's little girl.

Rosedale in the paternal role was hardly a figure to soften Lily; yet she
could not but notice a quality of homely goodness in his advances to the
child. They were not, at any rate, the premeditated and perfunctory
endearments of the guest under his hostess's eye, for he and the little
girl had the room to themselves; and something in his attitude made him
seem a simple and kindly being compared to the small critical creature
who endured his homage. Yes, he would be kind--Lily, from the threshold,
had time to feel--kind in his gross, unscrupulous, rapacious way, the way
of the predatory creature with his mate.  She had but a moment in which
to consider whether this glimpse of the fireside man mitigated her
repugnance, or gave it, rather, a more concrete and intimate form; for at
sight of her he was immediately on his feet again, the florid and
dominant Rosedale of Mattie Gormer's drawing-room.

It was no surprise to Lily to find that he had been selected as her only
fellow-guest. Though she and her hostess had not met since the latter's
tentative discussion of her future, Lily knew that the acuteness which
enabled Mrs. Fisher to lay a safe and pleasant course through a world of
antagonistic forces was not infrequently exercised for the benefit of her
friends. It was, in fact, characteristic of Carry that, while she
actively gleaned her own stores from the fields of affluence, her real
sympathies were on the other side--with the unlucky, the unpopular, the
unsuccessful, with all her hungry fellow-toilers in the shorn stubble of
success.

Mrs. Fisher's experience guarded her against the mistake of exposing
Lily, for the first evening, to the unmitigated impression of Rosedale's
personality. Kate Corby and two or three men dropped in to dinner, and
Lily, alive to every detail of her friend's method, saw that such
opportunities as had been contrived for her were to be deferred till she
had, as it were, gained courage to make effectual use of them. She had a
sense of acquiescing in this plan with the passiveness of a sufferer
resigned to the surgeon's touch; and this feeling of almost lethargic
helplessness continued when, after the departure of the guests, Mrs.
Fisher followed her upstairs.

"May I come in and smoke a cigarette over your fire? If we talk in my
room we shall disturb the child." Mrs. Fisher looked about her with the
eye of the solicitous hostess. "I hope you've managed to make yourself
comfortable, dear? Isn't it a jolly little house? It's such a blessing to
have a few quiet weeks with the baby."

Carry, in her rare moments of prosperity, became so expansively maternal
that Miss Bart sometimes wondered whether, if she could ever get time and
money enough, she would not end by devoting them both to her daughter.

"It's a well-earned rest: I'll say that for myself," she continued,
sinking down with a sigh of content on the pillowed lounge near the fire.
"Louisa Bry is a stern task-master: I often used to wish myself back with
the Gormers. Talk of love making people jealous and suspicious--it's
nothing to social ambition!  Louisa used to lie awake at night wondering
whether the women who called on us called on ME because I was with her,
or on HER because she was with me; and she was always laying traps to
find out what I thought. Of course I had to disown my oldest friends,
rather than let her suspect she owed me the chance of making a single
acquaintance--when, all the while, that was what she had me there for,
and what she wrote me a handsome cheque for when the season was over!"

Mrs. Fisher was not a woman who talked of herself without cause, and the
practice of direct speech, far from precluding in her an occasional
resort to circuitous methods, served rather, at crucial moments, the
purpose of the juggler's chatter while he shifts the contents of his
sleeves. Through the haze of her cigarette smoke she continued to gaze
meditatively at Miss Bart, who, having dismissed her maid, sat before the
toilet-table shaking out over her shoulders the loosened undulations of
her hair.

"Your hair's wonderful, Lily. Thinner--? What does that matter, when it's
so light and alive? So many women's worries seem to go straight to their
hair--but yours looks as if there had never been an anxious thought under
it. I never saw you look better than you did this evening. Mattie Gormer
told me that Morpeth wanted to paint you--why don't you let him?"

Miss Bart's immediate answer was to address a critical glance to the
reflection of the countenance under discussion. Then she said, with a
slight touch of irritation: "I don't care to accept a portrait from Paul
Morpeth."

Mrs. Fisher mused. "N--no. And just now, especially--well, he can do you
after you're married." She waited a moment, and then went on: "By the
way, I had a visit from Mattie the other day.  She turned up here last
Sunday--and with Bertha Dorset, of all people in the world!"

She paused again to measure the effect of this announcement on her
hearer, but the brush in Miss Bart's lifted hand maintained its
unwavering stroke from brow to nape.

"I never was more astonished," Mrs. Fisher pursued. "I don't know two
women less predestined to intimacy--from Bertha's standpoint, that is;
for of course poor Mattie thinks it natural enough that she should be
singled out--I've no doubt the rabbit always thinks it is fascinating the
anaconda. Well, you know I've always told you that Mattie secretly longed
to bore herself with the really fashionable; and now that the chance has
come, I see that she's capable of sacrificing all her old friends to it."

Lily laid aside her brush and turned a penetrating glance upon her
friend. "Including ME?" she suggested.

"Ah, my dear," murmured Mrs. Fisher, rising to push back a log from the
hearth.

"That's what Bertha means, isn't it?" Miss Bart went on steadily.  "For
of course she always means something; and before I left Long Island I saw
that she was beginning to lay her toils for Mattie."

Mrs. Fisher sighed evasively. "She has her fast now, at any rate.  To
think of that loud independence of Mattie's being only a subtler form of
snobbishness! Bertha can already make her believe anything she
pleases--and I'm afraid she's begun, my poor child, by insinuating
horrors about you."

Lily flushed under the shadow of her drooping hair. "The world is too
vile," she murmured, averting herself from Mrs. Fisher's anxious scrutiny.

"It's not a pretty place; and the only way to keep a footing in it is to
fight it on its own terms--and above all, my dear, not alone!" Mrs.
Fisher gathered up her floating implications in a resolute grasp.
"You've told me so little that I can only guess what has been happening;
but in the rush we all live in there's no time to keep on hating any one
without a cause, and if Bertha is still nasty enough to want to injure
you with other people it must be because she's still afraid of you. From
her standpoint there's only one reason for being afraid of you; and my
own idea is that, if you want to punish her, you hold the means in your
hand. I believe you can marry George Dorset tomorrow; but if you don't
care for that particular form of retaliation, the only thing to save you
from Bertha is to marry somebody else."



Chapter 7

The light projected on the situation by Mrs. Fisher had the cheerless
distinctness of a winter dawn. It outlined the facts with a cold
precision unmodified by shade or colour, and refracted, as it were, from
the blank walls of the surrounding limitations: she had opened windows
from which no sky was ever visible. But the idealist subdued to vulgar
necessities must employ vulgar minds to draw the inferences to which he
cannot stoop; and it was easier for Lily to let Mrs. Fisher formulate her
case than to put it plainly to herself. Once confronted with it, however,
she went the full length of its consequences; and these had never been
more clearly present to her than when, the next afternoon, she set out
for a walk with Rosedale.

It was one of those still November days when the air is haunted with the
light of summer, and something in the lines of the landscape, and in the
golden haze which bathed them, recalled to Miss Bart the September
afternoon when she had climbed the slopes of Bellomont with Selden. The
importunate memory was kept before her by its ironic contrast to her
present situation, since her walk with Selden had represented an
irresistible flight from just such a climax as the present excursion was
designed to bring about. But other memories importuned her also; the
recollection of similar situations, as skillfully led up to, but through
some malice of fortune, or her own unsteadiness of purpose, always
failing of the intended result. Well, her purpose was steady enough now.
She saw that the whole weary work of rehabilitation must begin again, and
against far greater odds, if Bertha Dorset should succeed in breaking up
her friendship with the Gormers; and her longing for shelter and security
was intensified by the passionate desire to triumph over Bertha, as only
wealth and predominance could triumph over her. As the wife of
Rosedale--the Rosedale she felt it in her power to create--she would at
least present an invulnerable front to her enemy.

She had to draw upon this thought, as upon some fiery stimulant, to keep
up her part in the scene toward which Rosedale was too frankly tending.
As she walked beside him, shrinking in every nerve from the way in which
his look and tone made free of her, yet telling herself that this
momentary endurance of his mood was the price she must pay for her
ultimate power over him, she tried to calculate the exact point at which
concession must turn to resistance, and the price HE would have to pay be
made equally clear to him. But his dapper self-confidence seemed
impenetrable to such hints, and she had a sense of something hard and
self-contained behind the superficial warmth of his manner.

They had been seated for some time in the seclusion of a rocky glen above
the lake, when she suddenly cut short the culmination of an impassioned
period by turning upon him the grave loveliness of her gaze.

"I DO believe what you say, Mr. Rosedale," she said quietly; "and I am
ready to marry you whenever you wish."

Rosedale, reddening to the roots of his glossy hair, received this
announcement with a recoil which carried him to his feet, where he halted
before her in an attitude of almost comic discomfiture.

"For I suppose that is what you do wish," she continued, in the same
quiet tone. "And, though I was unable to consent when you spoke to me in
this way before, I am ready, now that I know you so much better, to trust
my happiness to your hands."

She spoke with the noble directness which she could command on such
occasions, and which was like a large steady light thrown across the
tortuous darkness of the situation. In its inconvenient brightness
Rosedale seemed to waver a moment, as though conscious that every avenue
of escape was unpleasantly illuminated.

Then he gave a short laugh, and drew out a gold cigarette-case, in which,
with plump jewelled fingers, he groped for a gold-tipped cigarette.
Selecting one, he paused to contemplate it a moment before saying: "My
dear Miss Lily, I'm sorry if there's been any little misapprehension
between us-but you made me feel my suit was so hopeless that I had really
no intention of renewing it."

Lily's blood tingled with the grossness of the rebuff; but she checked
the first leap of her anger, and said in a tone of gentle dignity: "I
have no one but myself to blame if I gave you the impression that my
decision was final."

Her word-play was always too quick for him, and this reply held him in
puzzled silence while she extended her hand and added, with the faintest
inflection of sadness in her voice: "Before we bid each other goodbye, I
want at least to thank you for having once thought of me as you did."

The touch of her hand, the moving softness of her look, thrilled a
vulnerable fibre in Rosedale. It was her exquisite inaccessibleness, the
sense of distance she could convey without a hint of disdain, that made
it most difficult for him to give her up.

"Why do you talk of saying goodbye? Ain't we going to be good friends all
the same?" he urged, without releasing her hand.

She drew it away quietly. "What is your idea of being good friends?" she
returned with a slight smile. "Making love to me without asking me to
marry you?" Rosedale laughed with a recovered sense of ease.

"Well, that's about the size of it, I suppose. I can't help making love
to you--I don't see how any man could; but I don't mean to ask you to
marry me as long as I can keep out of it."

She continued to smile. "I like your frankness; but I am afraid our
friendship can hardly continue on those terms." She turned away, as
though to mark that its final term had in fact been reached, and he
followed her for a few steps with a baffled sense of her having after all
kept the game in her own hands.

"Miss Lily----" he began impulsively; but she walked on without seeming
to hear him.

He overtook her in a few quick strides, and laid an entreating hand on
her arm. "Miss Lily--don't hurry away like that. You're beastly hard on a
fellow; but if you don't mind speaking the truth I don't see why you
shouldn't allow me to do the same."

She had paused a moment with raised brows, drawing away instinctively
from his touch, though she made no effort to evade his words.

"I was under the impression," she rejoined, "that you had done so without
waiting for my permission."

"Well--why shouldn't you hear my reasons for doing it, then?  We're
neither of us such new hands that a little plain speaking is going to
hurt us. I'm all broken up on you: there's nothing new in that. I'm more
in love with you than I was this time last year; but I've got to face the
fact that the situation is changed."

She continued to confront him with the same air of ironic composure.
"You mean to say that I'm not as desirable a match as you thought me?"

"Yes; that's what I do mean," he answered resolutely. "I won't go into
what's happened. I don't believe the stories about you--I don't WANT to
believe them. But they're there, and my not believing them ain't going to
alter the situation."

She flushed to her temples, but the extremity of her need checked the
retort on her lip and she continued to face him composedly.  "If they are
not true," she said, "doesn't THAT alter the situation?"

He met this with a steady gaze of his small stock-taking eyes, which made
her feel herself no more than some superfine human merchandise. "I
believe it does in novels; but I'm certain it don't in real life. You
know that as well as I do: if we're speaking the truth, let's speak the
whole truth. Last year I was wild to marry you, and you wouldn't look at
me: this year--well, you appear to be willing. Now, what has changed in
the interval?  Your situation, that's all. Then you thought you could do
better; now----"

"You think you can?" broke from her ironically.

"Why, yes, I do: in one way, that is." He stood before her, his hands in
his pockets, his chest sturdily expanded under its vivid waistcoat.
"It's this way, you see: I've had a pretty steady grind of it these last
years, working up my social position.  Think it's funny I should say
that? Why should I mind saying I want to get into society? A man ain't
ashamed to say he wants to own a racing stable or a picture gallery.
Well, a taste for society's just another kind of hobby.  Perhaps I want
to get even with some of the people who cold-shouldered me last year--put
it that way if it sounds better. Anyhow, I want to have the run of the
best houses; and I'm getting it too, little by little. But I know the
quickest way to queer yourself with the right people is to be seen with
the wrong ones; and that's the reason I want to avoid mistakes."

Miss Bart continued to stand before him in a silence that might have
expressed either mockery or a half-reluctant respect for his candour, and
after a moment's pause he went on: "There it is, you see. I'm more in
love with you than ever, but if I married you now I'd queer myself for
good and all, and everything I've worked for all these years would be
wasted."

She received this with a look from which all tinge of resentment had
faded. After the tissue of social falsehoods in which she had so long
moved it was refreshing to step into the open daylight of an avowed
expediency.

"I understand you," she said. "A year ago I should have been of use to
you, and now I should be an encumbrance; and I like you for telling me so
quite honestly." She extended her hand with a smile.

Again the gesture had a disturbing effect upon Mr. Rosedale's
self-command. "By George, you're a dead game sport, you are!" he
exclaimed; and as she began once more to move away, he broke out
suddenly--"Miss Lily--stop. You know I don't believe those stories--I
believe they were all got up by a woman who didn't hesitate to sacrifice
you to her own convenience----"

Lily drew away with a movement of quick disdain: it was easier to endure
his insolence than his commiseration.

"You are very kind; but I don't think we need discuss the matter farther."

But Rosedale's natural imperviousness to hints made it easy for him to
brush such resistance aside. "I don't want to discuss anything; I just
want to put a plain case before you," he persisted.

She paused in spite of herself, held by the note of a new purpose in his
look and tone; and he went on, keeping his eyes firmly upon her: "The
wonder to me is that you've waited so long to get square with that woman,
when you've had the power in your hands." She continued silent under the
rush of astonishment that his words produced, and he moved a step closer
to ask with low-toned directness: "Why don't you use those letters of
hers you bought last year?"

Lily stood speechless under the shock of the interrogation. In the words
preceding it she had conjectured, at most, an allusion to her supposed
influence over George Dorset; nor did the astonishing indelicacy of the
reference diminish the likelihood of Rosedale's resorting to it. But now
she saw how far short of the mark she had fallen; and the surprise of
learning that he had discovered the secret of the letters left her, for
the moment, unconscious of the special use to which he was in the act of
putting his knowledge.

Her temporary loss of self-possession gave him time to press his point;
and he went on quickly, as though to secure completer control of the
situation: "You see I know where you stand--I know how completely she's
in your power. That sounds like stage-talk, don't it?--but there's a lot
of truth in some of those old gags; and I don't suppose you bought those
letters simply because you're collecting autographs."

She continued to look at him with a deepening bewilderment: her only
clear impression resolved itself into a scared sense of his power.

"You're wondering how I found out about 'em?" he went on, answering her
look with a note of conscious pride. "Perhaps you've forgotten that I'm
the owner of the Benedick--but never mind about that now. Getting on to
things is a mighty useful accomplishment in business, and I've simply
extended it to my private affairs. For this IS partly my affair, you
see--at least, it depends on you to make it so. Let's look the situation
straight in the eye. Mrs. Dorset, for reasons we needn't go into, did you
a beastly bad turn last spring. Everybody knows what Mrs. Dorset is, and
her best friends wouldn't believe her on oath where their own interests
were concerned; but as long as they're out of the row it's much easier to
follow her lead than to set themselves against it, and you've simply been
sacrificed to their laziness and selfishness. Isn't that a pretty fair
statement of the case?--Well, some people say you've got the neatest kind
of an answer in your hands: that George Dorset would marry you tomorrow,
if you'd tell him all you know, and give him the chance to show the lady
the door. I daresay he would; but you don't seem to care for that
particular form of getting even, and, taking a purely business view of
the question, I think you're right. In a deal like that, nobody comes out
with perfectly clean hands, and the only way for you to start fresh is to
get Bertha Dorset to back you up, instead of trying to fight her."

He paused long enough to draw breath, but not to give her time for the
expression of her gathering resistance; and as he pressed on, expounding
and elucidating his idea with the directness of the man who has no doubts
of his cause, she found the indignation gradually freezing on her lip,
found herself held fast in the grasp of his argument by the mere cold
strength of its presentation. There was no time now to wonder how he had
heard of her obtaining the letters: all her world was dark outside the
monstrous glare of his scheme for using them. And it was not, after the
first moment, the horror of the idea that held her spell-bound, subdued
to his will; it was rather its subtle affinity to her own inmost
cravings. He would marry her tomorrow if she could regain Bertha Dorset's
friendship; and to induce the open resumption of that friendship, and the
tacit retractation of all that had caused its withdrawal, she had only to
put to the lady the latent menace contained in the packet so miraculously
delivered into her hands. Lily saw in a flash the advantage of this
course over that which poor Dorset had pressed upon her. The other plan
depended for its success on the infliction of an open injury, while this
reduced the transaction to a private understanding, of which no third
person need have the remotest hint. Put by Rosedale in terms of
business-like give-and-take, this understanding took on the harmless air
of a mutual accommodation, like a transfer of property or a revision of
boundary lines. It certainly simplified life to view it as a perpetual
adjustment, a play of party politics, in which every concession had its
recognized equivalent: Lily's tired mind was fascinated by this escape
from fluctuating ethical estimates into a region of concrete weights and
measures.

Rosedale, as she listened, seemed to read in her silence not only a
gradual acquiescence in his plan, but a dangerously far-reaching
perception of the chances it offered; for as she continued to stand
before him without speaking, he broke out, with a quick return upon
himself: "You see how simple it is, don't you? Well, don't be carried
away by the idea that it's TOO simple.  It isn't exactly as if you'd
started in with a clean bill of health. Now we're talking let's call
things by their right names, and clear the whole business up. You know
well enough that Bertha Dorset couldn't have touched you if there hadn't
been--well--questions asked before--little points of interrogation, eh?
Bound to happen to a good-looking girl with stingy relatives, I suppose;
anyhow, they DID happen, and she found the ground prepared for her. Do
you see where I'm coming out? You don't want these little questions
cropping up again.  It's one thing to get Bertha Dorset into line--but
what you want is to keep her there. You can frighten her fast enough--but
how are you going to keep her frightened?  By showing her that you're as
powerful as she is. All the letters in the world won't do that for you as
you are now; but with a big backing behind you, you'll keep her just
where you want her to be. That's MY share in the business--that's what
I'm offering you. You can't put the thing through without me--don't run
away with any idea that you can. In six months you'd be back again among
your old worries, or worse ones; and here I am, ready to lift you out of
'em tomorrow if you say so. DO you say so, Miss Lily?" he added, moving
suddenly nearer.

The words, and the movement which accompanied them, combined to startle
Lily out of the state of tranced subservience into which she had
insensibly slipped. Light comes in devious ways to the groping
consciousness, and it came to her now through the disgusted perception
that her would-be accomplice assumed, as a matter of course, the
likelihood of her distrusting him and perhaps trying to cheat him of his
share of the spoils. This glimpse of his inner mind seemed to present the
whole transaction in a new aspect, and she saw that the essential
baseness of the act lay in its freedom from risk.

She drew back with a quick gesture of rejection, saying, in a voice that
was a surprise to her own ears: "You are mistaken--quite mistaken--both
in the facts and in what you infer from them."

Rosedale stared a moment, puzzled by her sudden dash in a direction so
different from that toward which she had appeared to be letting him guide
her.

"Now what on earth does that mean? I thought we understood each other!"
he exclaimed; and to her murmur of "Ah, we do NOW," he retorted with a
sudden burst of violence: "I suppose it's because the letters are to HIM,
then? Well, I'll be damned if I see what thanks you've got from him!"



Chapter 8

The autumn days declined to winter. Once more the leisure world was in
transition between country and town, and Fifth Avenue, still deserted at
the week-end, showed from Monday to Friday a broadening stream of
carriages between house-fronts gradually restored to consciousness.

The Horse Show, some two weeks earlier, had produced a passing semblance
of reanimation, filling the theatres and restaurants with a human display
of the same costly and high-stepping kind as circled daily about its
ring. In Miss Bart's world the Horse Show, and the public it attracted,
had ostensibly come to be classed among the spectacles disdained of the
elect; but, as the feudal lord might sally forth to join in the dance on
his village green, so society, unofficially and incidentally, still
condescended to look in upon the scene. Mrs. Gormer, among the rest, was
not above seizing such an occasion for the display of herself and her
horses; and Lily was given one or two opportunities of appearing at her
friend's side in the most conspicuous box the house afforded. But this
lingering semblance of intimacy made her only the more conscious of a
change in the relation between Mattie and herself, of a dawning
discrimination, a gradually formed social standard, emerging from Mrs.
Gormer's chaotic view of life. It was inevitable that Lily herself should
constitute the first sacrifice to this new ideal, and she knew that, once
the Gormers were established in town, the whole drift of fashionable life
would facilitate Mattie's detachment from her. She had, in short, failed
to make herself indispensable; or rather, her attempt to do so had been
thwarted by an influence stronger than any she could exert. That
influence, in its last analysis, was simply the power of money: Bertha
Dorset's social credit was based on an impregnable bank-account.

Lily knew that Rosedale had overstated neither the difficulty of her own
position nor the completeness of the vindication he offered: once
Bertha's match in material resources, her superior gifts would make it
easy for her to dominate her adversary. An understanding of what such
domination would mean, and of the disadvantages accruing from her
rejection of it, was brought home to Lily with increasing clearness
during the early weeks of the winter. Hitherto, she had kept up a
semblance of movement outside the main flow of the social current; but
with the return to town, and the concentrating of scattered activities,
the mere fact of not slipping back naturally into her old habits of life
marked her as being unmistakably excluded from them. If one were not a
part of the season's fixed routine, one swung unsphered in a void of
social non-existence. Lily, for all her dissatisfied dreaming, had never
really conceived the possibility of revolving about a different centre:
it was easy enough to despise the world, but decidedly difficult to find
any other habitable region. Her sense of irony never quite deserted her,
and she could still note, with self-directed derision, the abnormal value
suddenly acquired by the most tiresome and insignificant details of her
former life. Its very drudgeries had a charm now that she was
involuntarily released from them: card-leaving, note-writing, enforced
civilities to the dull and elderly, and the smiling endurance of tedious
dinners--how pleasantly such obligations would have filled the emptiness
of her days! She did indeed leave cards in plenty; she kept herself, with
a smiling and valiant persistence, well in the eye of her world; nor did
she suffer any of those gross rebuffs which sometimes produce a wholesome
reaction of contempt in their victim. Society did not turn away from her,
it simply drifted by, preoccupied and inattentive, letting her feel, to
the full measure of her humbled pride, how completely she had been the
creature of its favour.

She had rejected Rosedale's suggestion with a promptness of scorn almost
surprising to herself: she had not lost her capacity for high flashes of
indignation. But she could not breathe long on the heights; there had
been nothing in her training to develop any continuity of moral strength:
what she craved, and really felt herself entitled to, was a situation in
which the noblest attitude should also be the easiest. Hitherto her
intermittent impulses of resistance had sufficed to maintain her
self-respect.  If she slipped she recovered her footing, and it was only
afterward that she was aware of having recovered it each time on a
slightly lower level. She had rejected Rosedale's offer without conscious
effort; her whole being had risen against it; and she did not yet
perceive that, by the mere act of listening to him, she had learned to
live with ideas which would once have been intolerable to her.




To Gerty Farish, keeping watch over her with a tenderer if less
discerning eye than Mrs. Fisher's, the results of the struggle were
already distinctly visible. She did not, indeed, know what hostages Lily
had already given to expediency; but she saw her passionately and
irretrievably pledged to the ruinous policy of "keeping up." Gerty could
smile now at her own early dream of her friend's renovation through
adversity: she understood clearly enough that Lily was not of those to
whom privation teaches the unimportance of what they have lost. But this
very fact, to Gerty, made her friend the more piteously in want of aid,
the more exposed to the claims of a tenderness she was so little
conscious of needing.

Lily, since her return to town, had not often climbed Miss Farish's
stairs. There was something irritating to her in the mute interrogation
of Gerty's sympathy: she felt the real difficulties of her situation to
be incommunicable to any one whose theory of values was so different from
her own, and the restrictions of Gerty's life, which had once had the
charm of contrast, now reminded her too painfully of the limits to which
her own existence was shrinking. When at length, one afternoon, she put
into execution the belated resolve to visit her friend, this sense of
shrunken opportunities possessed her with unusual intensity.  The walk up
Fifth Avenue, unfolding before her, in the brilliance of the hard winter
sunlight, an interminable procession of fastidiously-equipped
carriages--giving her, through the little squares of brougham-windows,
peeps of familiar profiles bent above visiting-lists, of hurried hands
dispensing notes and cards to attendant footmen--this glimpse of the
ever-revolving wheels of the great social machine made Lily more than
ever conscious of the steepness and narrowness of Gerty's stairs, and of
the cramped blind alley of life to which they led.  Dull stairs destined
to be mounted by dull people: how many thousands of insignificant figures
were going up and down such stairs all over the world at that very
moment--figures as shabby and uninteresting as that of the middle-aged
lady in limp black who descended Gerty's flight as Lily climbed to it!

"That was poor Miss Jane Silverton--she came to talk things over with me:
she and her sister want to do something to support themselves," Gerty
explained, as Lily followed her into the sitting-room.

"To support themselves? Are they so hard up?" Miss Bart asked with a
touch of irritation: she had not come to listen to the woes of other
people.

"I'm afraid they have nothing left: Ned's debts have swallowed up
everything. They had such hopes, you know, when he broke away from Carry
Fisher; they thought Bertha Dorset would be such a good influence,
because she doesn't care for cards, and--well, she talked quite
beautifully to poor Miss Jane about feeling as if Ned were her younger
brother, and wanting to carry him off on the yacht, so that he might have
a chance to drop cards and racing, and take up his literary work again."

Miss Farish paused with a sigh which reflected the perplexity of her
departing visitor. "But that isn't all; it isn't even the worst. It seems
that Ned has quarrelled with the Dorsets; or at least Bertha won't allow
him to see her, and he is so unhappy about it that he has taken to
gambling again, and going about with all sorts of queer people. And
cousin Grace Van Osburgh accuses him of having had a very bad influence
on Freddy, who left Harvard last spring, and has been a great deal with
Ned ever since. She sent for Miss Jane, and made a dreadful scene; and
Jack Stepney and Herbert Melson, who were there too, told Miss Jane that
Freddy was threatening to marry some dreadful woman to whom Ned had
introduced him, and that they could do nothing with him because now he's
of age he has his own money. You can fancy how poor Miss Jane felt--she
came to me at once, and seemed to think that if I could get her something
to do she could earn enough to pay Ned's debts and send him away--I'm
afraid she has no idea how long it would take her to pay for one of his
evenings at bridge. And he was horribly in debt when he came back from
the cruise--I can't see why he should have spent so much more money under
Bertha's influence than Carry's: can you?"

Lily met this query with an impatient gesture. "My dear Gerty, I always
understand how people can spend much more money--never how they can spend
any less!"

She loosened her furs and settled herself in Gerty's easy-chair, while
her friend busied herself with the tea-cups.

"But what can they do--the Miss Silvertons? How do they mean to support
themselves?" she asked, conscious that the note of irritation still
persisted in her voice. It was the very last topic she had meant to
discuss--it really did not interest her in the least--but she was seized
by a sudden perverse curiosity to know how the two colourless shrinking
victims of young Silverton's sentimental experiments meant to cope with
the grim necessity which lurked so close to her own threshold.

"I don't know--I am trying to find something for them. Miss Jane reads
aloud very nicely--but it's so hard to find any one who is willing to be
read to. And Miss Annie paints a little----"

"Oh, I know--apple-blossoms on blotting-paper; just the kind of thing I
shall be doing myself before long!" exclaimed Lily, starting up with a
vehemence of movement that threatened destruction to Miss Farish's
fragile tea-table.

Lily bent over to steady the cups; then she sank back into her seat.
"I'd forgotten there was no room to dash about in--how beautifully one
does have to behave in a small flat! Oh, Gerty, I wasn't meant to be
good," she sighed out incoherently.

Gerty lifted an apprehensive look to her pale face, in which the eyes
shone with a peculiar sleepless lustre.

"You look horribly tired, Lily; take your tea, and let me give you this
cushion to lean against."

Miss Bart accepted the cup of tea, but put back the cushion with an
impatient hand.

"Don't give me that! I don't want to lean back--I shall go to sleep if I
do."

"Well, why not, dear? I'll be as quiet as a mouse," Gerty urged
affectionately.

"No--no; don't be quiet; talk to me--keep me awake! I don't sleep at
night, and in the afternoon a dreadful drowsiness creeps over me."

"You don't sleep at night? Since when?"

"I don't know--I can't remember." She rose and put the empty cup on the
tea-tray. "Another, and stronger, please; if I don't keep awake now I
shall see horrors tonight--perfect horrors!"

"But they'll be worse if you drink too much tea."

"No, no--give it to me; and don't preach, please," Lily returned
imperiously. Her voice had a dangerous edge, and Gerty noticed that her
hand shook as she held it out to receive the second cup.

"But you look so tired: I'm sure you must be ill----"

Miss Bart set down her cup with a start. "Do I look ill? Does my face
show it?" She rose and walked quickly toward the little mirror above the
writing-table. "What a horrid looking-glass--it's all blotched and
discoloured. Any one would look ghastly in it!" She turned back, fixing
her plaintive eyes on Gerty. "You stupid dear, why do you say such odious
things to me? It's enough to make one ill to be told one looks so! And
looking ill means looking ugly." She caught Gerty's wrists, and drew her
close to the window. "After all, I'd rather know the truth.  Look me
straight in the face, Gerty, and tell me: am I perfectly frightful?"

"You're perfectly beautiful now, Lily: your eyes are shining, and your
cheeks have grown so pink all of a sudden----"

"Ah, they WERE pale, then--ghastly pale, when I came in? Why don't you
tell me frankly that I'm a wreck? My eyes are bright now because I'm so
nervous--but in the mornings they look like lead. And I can see the lines
coming in my face--the lines of worry and disappointment and failure!
Every sleepless night leaves a new one--and how can I sleep, when I have
such dreadful things to think about?"

"Dreadful things--what things?" asked Gerty, gently detaching her wrists
from her friend's feverish fingers.

"What things? Well, poverty, for one--and I don't know any that's more
dreadful." Lily turned away and sank with sudden weariness into the
easy-chair near the tea-table. "You asked me just now if I could
understand why Ned Silverton spent so much money. Of course I
understand--he spends it on living with the rich. You think we live ON
the rich, rather than with them: and so we do, in a sense--but it's a
privilege we have to pay for! We eat their dinners, and drink their wine,
and smoke their cigarettes, and use their carriages and their opera-boxes
and their private cars--yes, but there's a tax to pay on every one of
those luxuries. The man pays it by big tips to the servants, by playing
cards beyond his means, by flowers and presents--and--and--lots of other
things that cost; the girl pays it by tips and cards too--oh, yes, I've
had to take up bridge again--and by going to the best dress-makers, and
having just the right dress for every occasion, and always keeping
herself fresh and exquisite and amusing!"

She leaned back for a moment, closing her eyes, and as she sat there, her
pale lips slightly parted, and the lids dropped above her fagged
brilliant gaze, Gerty had a startled perception of the change in her
face--of the way in which an ashen daylight seemed suddenly to extinguish
its artificial brightness. She looked up, and the vision vanished.

"It doesn't sound very amusing, does it? And it isn't--I'm sick to death
of it! And yet the thought of giving it all up nearly kills me--it's what
keeps me awake at night, and makes me so crazy for your strong tea. For I
can't go on in this way much longer, you know--I'm nearly at the end of
my tether. And then what can I do--how on earth am I to keep myself
alive? I see myself reduced to the fate of that poor Silverton
woman--slinking about to employment agencies, and trying to sell painted
blotting-pads to Women's Exchanges! And there are thousands and thousands
of women trying to do the same thing already, and not one of the number
who has less idea how to earn a dollar than I have!"

She rose again with a hurried glance at the clock. "It's late, and I must
be off--I have an appointment with Carry Fisher. Don't look so worried,
you dear thing--don't think too much about the nonsense I've been
talking." She was before the mirror again, adjusting her hair with a
light hand, drawing down her veil, and giving a dexterous touch to her
furs. "Of course, you know, it hasn't come to the employment agencies and
the painted blotting-pads yet; but I'm rather hard-up just for the
moment, and if I could find something to do--notes to write and
visiting-lists to make up, or that kind of thing--it would tide me over
till the legacy is paid. And Carry has promised to find somebody who
wants a kind of social secretary--you know she makes a specialty of the
helpless rich."




Miss Bart had not revealed to Gerty the full extent of her anxiety. She
was in fact in urgent and immediate need of money: money to meet the
vulgar weekly claims which could neither be deferred nor evaded. To give
up her apartment, and shrink to the obscurity of a boarding-house, or the
provisional hospitality of a bed in Gerty Farish's sitting-room, was an
expedient which could only postpone the problem confronting her; and it
seemed wiser as well as more agreeable to remain where she was and find
some means of earning her living. The possibility of having to do this
was one which she had never before seriously considered, and the
discovery that, as a bread-winner, she was likely to prove as helpless
and ineffectual as poor Miss Silverton, was a severe shock to her
self-confidence.

Having been accustomed to take herself at the popular valuation, as a
person of energy and resource, naturally fitted to dominate any situation
in which she found herself, she vaguely imagined that such gifts would be
of value to seekers after social guidance; but there was unfortunately no
specific head under which the art of saying and doing the right thing
could be offered in the market, and even Mrs. Fisher's resourcefulness
failed before the difficulty of discovering a workable vein in the vague
wealth of Lily's graces. Mrs. Fisher was full of indirect expedients for
enabling her friends to earn a living, and could conscientiously assert
that she had put several opportunities of this kind before Lily; but more
legitimate methods of bread-winning were as much out of her line as they
were beyond the capacity of the sufferers she was generally called upon
to assist. Lily's failure to profit by the chances already afforded her
might, moreover, have justified the abandonment of farther effort on her
behalf; but Mrs. Fisher's inexhaustible good-nature made her an adept at
creating artificial demands in response to an actual supply. In the
pursuance of this end she at once started on a voyage of discovery in
Miss Bart's behalf; and as the result of her explorations she now
summoned the latter with the announcement that she had "found something."




Left to herself, Gerty mused distressfully upon her friend's plight, and
her own inability to relieve it. It was clear to her that Lily, for the
present, had no wish for the kind of help she could give. Miss Farish
could see no hope for her friend but in a life completely reorganized and
detached from its old associations; whereas all Lily's energies were
centred in the determined effort to hold fast to those associations, to
keep herself visibly identified with them, as long as the illusion could
be maintained. Pitiable as such an attitude seemed to Gerty, she could
not judge it as harshly as Selden, for instance, might have done. She had
not forgotten the night of emotion when she and Lily had lain in each
other's arms, and she had seemed to feel her very heart's blood passing
into her friend. The sacrifice she had made had seemed unavailing enough;
no trace remained in Lily of the subduing influences of that hour; but
Gerty's tenderness, disciplined by long years of contact with obscure and
inarticulate suffering, could wait on its object with a silent
forbearance which took no account of time. She could not, however, deny
herself the solace of taking anxious counsel with Lawrence Selden, with
whom, since his return from Europe, she had renewed her old relation of
cousinly confidence.

Selden himself had never been aware of any change in their relation. He
found Gerty as he had left her, simple, undemanding and devoted, but with
a quickened intelligence of the heart which he recognized without seeking
to explain it. To Gerty herself it would once have seemed impossible that
she should ever again talk freely with him of Lily Bart; but what had
passed in the secrecy of her own breast seemed to resolve itself, when
the mist of the struggle cleared, into a breaking down of the bounds of
self, a deflecting of the wasted personal emotion into the general
current of human understanding.

It was not till some two weeks after her visit from Lily that Gerty had
the opportunity of communicating her fears to Selden.  The latter, having
presented himself on a Sunday afternoon, had lingered on through the
dowdy animation of his cousin's tea-hour, conscious of something in her
voice and eye which solicited a word apart; and as soon as the last
visitor was gone Gerty opened her case by asking how lately he had seen
Miss Bart.

Selden's perceptible pause gave her time for a slight stir of surprise.

"I haven't seen her at all--I've perpetually missed seeing her since she
came back."

This unexpected admission made Gerty pause too; and she was still
hesitating on the brink of her subject when he relieved her by adding:
"I've wanted to see her--but she seems to have been absorbed by the
Gormer set since her return from Europe."

"That's all the more reason: she's been very unhappy."

"Unhappy at being with the Gormers?"

"Oh, I don't defend her intimacy with the Gormers; but that too is at an
end now, I think. You know people have been very unkind since Bertha
Dorset quarrelled with her."

"Ah----" Selden exclaimed, rising abruptly to walk to the window, where
he remained with his eyes on the darkening street while his cousin
continued to explain: "Judy Trenor and her own family have deserted her
too--and all because Bertha Dorset has said such horrible things. And she
is very poor--you know Mrs. Peniston cut her off with a small legacy,
after giving her to understand that she was to have everything."

"Yes--I know," Selden assented curtly, turning back into the room, but
only to stir about with restless steps in the circumscribed space between
door and window. "Yes--she's been abominably treated; but it's
unfortunately the precise thing that a man who wants to show his sympathy
can't say to her."

His words caused Gerty a slight chill of disappointment. "There would be
other ways of showing your sympathy," she suggested.

Selden, with a slight laugh, sat down beside her on the little sofa which
projected from the hearth. "What are you thinking of, you incorrigible
missionary?" he asked.

Gerty's colour rose, and her blush was for a moment her only answer.
Then she made it more explicit by saying: "I am thinking of the fact that
you and she used to be great friends--that she used to care immensely for
what you thought of her--and that, if she takes your staying away as a
sign of what you think now, I can imagine its adding a great deal to her
unhappiness."

"My dear child, don't add to it still more--at least to your conception
of it--by attributing to her all sorts of susceptibilities of your own."
Selden, for his life, could not keep a note of dryness out of his voice;
but he met Gerty's look of perplexity by saying more mildly: "But, though
you immensely exaggerate the importance of anything I could do for Miss
Bart, you can't exaggerate my readiness to do it--if you ask me to." He
laid his hand for a moment on hers, and there passed between them, on the
current of the rare contact, one of those exchanges of meaning which fill
the hidden reservoirs of affection.  Gerty had the feeling that he
measured the cost of her request as plainly as she read the significance
of his reply; and the sense of all that was suddenly clear between them
made her next words easier to find.

"I do ask you, then; I ask you because she once told me that you had been
a help to her, and because she needs help now as she has never needed it
before. You know how dependent she has always been on ease and
luxury--how she has hated what was shabby and ugly and uncomfortable. She
can't help it--she was brought up with those ideas, and has never been
able to find her way out of them. But now all the things she cared for
have been taken from her, and the people who taught her to care for them
have abandoned her too; and it seems to me that if some one could reach
out a hand and show her the other side--show her how much is left in life
and in herself----" Gerty broke off, abashed at the sound of her own
eloquence, and impeded by the difficulty of giving precise expression to
her vague yearning for her friend's retrieval. "I can't help her myself:
she's passed out of my reach," she continued. "I think she's afraid of
being a burden to me.  When she was last here, two weeks ago, she seemed
dreadfully worried about her future: she said Carry Fisher was trying to
find something for her to do. A few days later she wrote me that she had
taken a position as private secretary, and that I was not to be anxious,
for everything was all right, and she would come in and tell me about it
when she had time; but she has never come, and I don't like to go to her,
because I am afraid of forcing myself on her when I'm not wanted.  Once,
when we were children, and I had rushed up after a long separation, and
thrown my arms about her, she said: 'Please don't kiss me unless I ask
you to, Gerty'--and she DID ask me, a minute later; but since then I've
always waited to be asked."

Selden had listened in silence, with the concentrated look which his thin
dark face could assume when he wished to guard it against any involuntary
change of expression. When his cousin ended, he said with a slight smile:
"Since you've learned the wisdom of waiting, I don't see why you urge me
to rush in--" but the troubled appeal of her eyes made him add, as he
rose to take leave: "Still, I'll do what you wish, and not hold you
responsible for my failure."

Selden's avoidance of Miss Bart had not been as unintentional as he had
allowed his cousin to think. At first, indeed, while the memory of their
last hour at Monte Carlo still held the full heat of his indignation, he
had anxiously watched for her return; but she had disappointed him by
lingering in England, and when she finally reappeared it happened that
business had called him to the West, whence he came back only to learn
that she was starting for Alaska with the Gormers. The revelation of this
suddenly-established intimacy effectually chilled his desire to see her.
If, at a moment when her whole life seemed to be breaking up, she could
cheerfully commit its reconstruction to the Gormers, there was no reason
why such accidents should ever strike her as irreparable.  Every step she
took seemed in fact to carry her farther from the region where, once or
twice, he and she had met for an illumined moment; and the recognition of
this fact, when its first pang had been surmounted, produced in him a
sense of negative relief. It was much simpler for him to judge Miss Bart
by her habitual conduct than by the rare deviations from it which had
thrown her so disturbingly in his way; and every act of hers which made
the recurrence of such deviations more unlikely, confirmed the sense of
relief with which he returned to the conventional view of her.

But Gerty Farish's words had sufficed to make him see how little this
view was really his, and how impossible it was for him to live quietly
with the thought of Lily Bart. To hear that she was in need of help--even
such vague help as he could offer--was to be at once repossessed by that
thought; and by the time he reached the street he had sufficiently
convinced himself of the urgency of his cousin's appeal to turn his steps
directly toward Lily's hotel.

There his zeal met a check in the unforeseen news that Miss Bart had
moved away; but, on his pressing his enquiries, the clerk remembered that
she had left an address, for which he presently began to search through
his books.

It was certainly strange that she should have taken this step without
letting Gerty Farish know of her decision; and Selden waited with a vague
sense of uneasiness while the address was sought for. The process lasted
long enough for uneasiness to turn to apprehension; but when at length a
slip of paper was handed him, and he read on it: "Care of Mrs. Norma
Hatch, Emporium Hotel," his apprehension passed into an incredulous
stare, and this into the gesture of disgust with which he tore the paper
in two, and turned to walk quickly homeward.



Chapter 9

When Lily woke on the morning after her translation to the Emporium
Hotel, her first feeling was one of purely physical satisfaction. The
force of contrast gave an added keenness to the luxury of lying once more
in a soft-pillowed bed, and looking across a spacious sunlit room at a
breakfast-table set invitingly near the fire. Analysis and introspection
might come later; but for the moment she was not even troubled by the
excesses of the upholstery or the restless convolutions of the furniture.
The sense of being once more lapped and folded in ease, as in some dense
mild medium impenetrable to discomfort, effectually stilled the faintest
note of criticism.

When, the afternoon before, she had presented herself to the lady to whom
Carry Fisher had directed her, she had been conscious of entering a new
world. Carry's vague presentment of Mrs. Norma Hatch (whose reversion to
her Christian name was explained as the result of her latest divorce),
left her under the implication of coming "from the West," with the not
unusual extenuation of having brought a great deal of money with her. She
was, in short, rich, helpless, unplaced: the very subject for Lily's
hand. Mrs. Fisher had not specified the line her friend was to take; she
owned herself unacquainted with Mrs. Hatch, whom she "knew about" through
Melville Stancy, a lawyer in his leisure moments, and the Falstaff of a
certain section of festive club life.  Socially, Mr. Stancy might have
been said to form a connecting link between the Gormer world and the more
dimly-lit region on which Miss Bart now found herself entering. It was,
however, only figuratively that the illumination of Mrs. Hatch's world
could be described as dim: in actual fact, Lily found her seated in a
blaze of electric light, impartially projected from various ornamental
excrescences on a vast concavity of pink damask and gilding, from which
she rose like Venus from her shell. The analogy was justified by the
appearance of the lady, whose large-eyed prettiness had the fixity of
something impaled and shown under glass. This did not preclude the
immediate discovery that she was some years younger than her visitor, and
that under her showiness, her ease, the aggression of her dress and
voice, there persisted that ineradicable innocence which, in ladies of
her nationality, so curiously coexists with startling extremes of
experience.

The environment in which Lily found herself was as strange to her as its
inhabitants. She was unacquainted with the world of the fashionable New
York hotel--a world over-heated, over-upholstered, and over-fitted with
mechanical appliances for the gratification of fantastic requirements,
while the comforts of a civilized life were as unattainable as in a
desert. Through this atmosphere of torrid splendour moved wan beings as
richly upholstered as the furniture, beings without definite pursuits or
permanent relations, who drifted on a languid tide of curiosity from
restaurant to concert-hall, from palm-garden to music-room, from "art
exhibit" to dress-maker's opening.  High-stepping horses or elaborately
equipped motors waited to carry these ladies into vague metropolitan
distances, whence they returned, still more wan from the weight of their
sables, to be sucked back into the stifling inertia of the hotel routine.
Somewhere behind them, in the background of their lives, there was
doubtless a real past, peopled by real human activities: they themselves
were probably the product of strong ambitions, persistent energies,
diversified contacts with the wholesome roughness of life; yet they had
no more real existence than the poet's shades in limbo.

Lily had not been long in this pallid world without discovering that Mrs.
Hatch was its most substantial figure. That lady, though still floating
in the void, showed faint symptoms of developing an outline; and in this
endeavour she was actively seconded by Mr. Melville Stancy.  It was Mr.
Stancy, a man of large resounding presence, suggestive of convivial
occasions and of a chivalry finding expression in "first-night" boxes and
thousand dollar bonbonnieres, who had transplanted Mrs. Hatch from the
scene of her first development to the higher stage of hotel life in the
metropolis. It was he who had selected the horses with which she had
taken the blue ribbon at the Show, had introduced her to the photographer
whose portraits of her formed the recurring ornament of "Sunday
Supplements," and had got together the group which constituted her social
world. It was a small group still, with heterogeneous figures suspended
in large unpeopled spaces; but Lily did not take long to learn that its
regulation was no longer in Mr. Stancy's hands. As often happens, the
pupil had outstripped the teacher, and Mrs. Hatch was already aware of
heights of elegance as well as depths of luxury beyond the world of the
Emporium.  This discovery at once produced in her a craving for higher
guidance, for the adroit feminine hand which should give the right turn
to her correspondence, the right "look" to her hats, the right succession
to the items of her MENUS. It was, in short, as the regulator of a
germinating social life that Miss Bart's guidance was required; her
ostensible duties as secretary being restricted by the fact that Mrs.
Hatch, as yet, knew hardly any one to write to.

The daily details of Mrs. Hatch's existence were as strange to Lily as
its general tenor. The lady's habits were marked by an Oriental indolence
and disorder peculiarly trying to her companion. Mrs. Hatch and her
friends seemed to float together outside the bounds of time and space. No
definite hours were kept; no fixed obligations existed: night and day
flowed into one another in a blur of confused and retarded engagements,
so that one had the impression of lunching at the tea-hour, while dinner
was often merged in the noisy after-theatre supper which prolonged Mrs.
Hatch's vigil till daylight.

Through this jumble of futile activities came and went a strange throng
of hangers-on--manicures, beauty-doctors, hair-dressers, teachers of
bridge, of French, of "physical development": figures sometimes
indistinguishable, by their appearance, or by Mrs. Hatch's relation to
them, from the visitors constituting her recognized society. But
strangest of all to Lily was the encounter, in this latter group, of
several of her acquaintances.  She had supposed, and not without relief,
that she was passing, for the moment, completely out of her own circle;
but she found that Mr. Stancy, one side of whose sprawling existence
overlapped the edge of Mrs. Fisher's world, had drawn several of its
brightest ornaments into the circle of the Emporium. To find Ned
Silverton among the habitual frequenters of Mrs. Hatch's drawing-room was
one of Lily's first astonishments; but she soon discovered that he was
not Mr. Stancy's most important recruit. It was on little Freddy Van
Osburgh, the small slim heir of the Van Osburgh millions, that the
attention of Mrs. Hatch's group was centred. Freddy, barely out of
college, had risen above the horizon since Lily's eclipse, and she now
saw with surprise what an effulgence he shed on the outer twilight of
Mrs. Hatch's existence. This, then, was one of the things that young men
"went in" for when released from the official social routine; this was
the kind of "previous engagement" that so frequently caused them to
disappoint the hopes of anxious hostesses. Lily had an odd sense of being
behind the social tapestry, on the side where the threads were knotted
and the loose ends hung. For a moment she found a certain amusement in
the show, and in her own share of it: the situation had an ease and
unconventionality distinctly refreshing after her experience of the irony
of conventions. But these flashes of amusement were but brief reactions
from the long disgust of her days. Compared with the vast gilded void of
Mrs. Hatch's existence, the life of Lily's former friends seemed packed
with ordered activities. Even the most irresponsible pretty woman of her
acquaintance had her inherited obligations, her conventional
benevolences, her share in the working of the great civic machine; and
all hung together in the solidarity of these traditional functions. The
performance of specific duties would have simplified Miss Bart's
position; but the vague attendance on Mrs. Hatch was not without its
perplexities.

It was not her employer who created these perplexities. Mrs. Hatch showed
from the first an almost touching desire for Lily's approval.  Far from
asserting the superiority of wealth, her beautiful eyes seemed to urge
the plea of inexperience: she wanted to do what was "nice," to be taught
how to be "lovely." The difficulty was to find any point of contact
between her ideals and Lily's.

Mrs. Hatch swam in a haze of indeterminate enthusiasms, of aspirations
culled from the stage, the newspapers, the fashion journals, and a gaudy
world of sport still more completely beyond her companion's ken.  To
separate from these confused conceptions those most likely to advance the
lady on her way, was Lily's obvious duty; but its performance was
hampered by rapidly-growing doubts. Lily was in fact becoming more and
more aware of a certain ambiguity in her situation.  It was not that she
had, in the conventional sense, any doubt of Mrs. Hatch's
irreproachableness. The lady's offences were always against taste rather
than conduct; her divorce record seemed due to geographical rather than
ethical conditions; and her worst laxities were likely to proceed from a
wandering and extravagant good-nature.  But if Lily did not mind her
detaining her manicure for luncheon, or offering the "Beauty-Doctor" a
seat in Freddy Van Osburgh's box at the play, she was not equally at ease
in regard to some less apparent lapses from convention. Ned Silverton's
relation to Stancy seemed, for instance, closer and less clear than any
natural affinities would warrant; and both appeared united in the effort
to cultivate Freddy Van Osburgh's growing taste for Mrs. Hatch. There was
as yet nothing definable in the situation, which might well resolve
itself into a huge joke on the part of the other two; but Lily had a
vague sense that the subject of their experiment was too young, too rich
and too credulous.  Her embarrassment was increased by the fact that
Freddy seemed to regard her as cooperating with himself in the social
development of Mrs. Hatch: a view that suggested, on his part, a
permanent interest in the lady's future. There were moments when Lily
found an ironic amusement in this aspect of the case. The thought of
launching such a missile as Mrs. Hatch at the perfidious bosom of society
was not without its charm: Miss Bart had even beguiled her leisure with
visions of the fair Norma introduced for the first time to a family
banquet at the Van Osburghs'. But the thought of being personally
connected with the transaction was less agreeable; and her momentary
flashes of amusement were followed by increasing periods of doubt.

The sense of these doubts was uppermost when, late one afternoon, she was
surprised by a visit from Lawrence Selden. He found her alone in the
wilderness of pink damask, for in Mrs. Hatch's world the tea-hour was not
dedicated to social rites, and the lady was in the hands of her masseuse.

Selden's entrance had caused Lily an inward start of embarrassment; but
his air of constraint had the effect of restoring her self-possession,
and she took at once the tone of surprise and pleasure, wondering frankly
that he should have traced her to so unlikely a place, and asking what
had inspired him to make the search.

Selden met this with an unusual seriousness: she had never seen him so
little master of the situation, so plainly at the mercy of any
obstructions she might put in his way. "I wanted to see you," he said;
and she could not resist observing in reply that he had kept his wishes
under remarkable control. She had in truth felt his long absence as one
of the chief bitternesses of the last months: his desertion had wounded
sensibilities far below the surface of her pride.

Selden met the challenge with directness. "Why should I have come, unless
I thought I could be of use to you? It is my only excuse for imagining
you could want me."

This struck her as a clumsy evasion, and the thought gave a flash of
keenness to her answer. "Then you have come now because you think you can
be of use to me?"

He hesitated again. "Yes: in the modest capacity of a person to talk
things over with."

For a clever man it was certainly a stupid beginning; and the idea that
his awkwardness was due to the fear of her attaching a personal
significance to his visit, chilled her pleasure in seeing him. Even under
the most adverse conditions, that pleasure always made itself felt: she
might hate him, but she had never been able to wish him out of the room.
She was very near hating him now; yet the sound of his voice, the way the
light fell on his thin dark hair, the way he sat and moved and wore his
clothes--she was conscious that even these trivial things were inwoven
with her deepest life. In his presence a sudden stillness came upon her,
and the turmoil of her spirit ceased; but an impulse of resistance to
this stealing influence now prompted her to say: "It's very good of you
to present yourself in that capacity; but what makes you think I have
anything particular to talk about?"

Though she kept the even tone of light intercourse, the question was
framed in a way to remind him that his good offices were unsought; and
for a moment Selden was checked by it. The situation between them was one
which could have been cleared up only by a sudden explosion of feeling;
and their whole training and habit of mind were against the chances of
such an explosion. Selden's calmness seemed rather to harden into
resistance, and Miss Bart's into a surface of glittering irony, as they
faced each other from the opposite corners of one of Mrs. Hatch's
elephantine sofas. The sofa in question, and the apartment peopled by its
monstrous mates, served at length to suggest the turn of Selden's reply.

"Gerty told me that you were acting as Mrs. Hatch's secretary; and I knew
she was anxious to hear how you were getting on."

Miss Bart received this explanation without perceptible softening. "Why
didn't she look me up herself, then?" she asked.

"Because, as you didn't send her your address, she was afraid of being
importunate." Selden continued with a smile: "You see no such scruples
restrained me; but then I haven't as much to risk if I incur your
displeasure."

Lily answered his smile. "You haven't incurred it as yet; but I have an
idea that you are going to."

"That rests with you, doesn't it? You see my initiative doesn't go beyond
putting myself at your disposal."

"But in what capacity? What am I to do with you?" she asked in the same
light tone.

Selden again glanced about Mrs. Hatch's drawing-room; then he said, with
a decision which he seemed to have gathered from this final inspection:
"You are to let me take you away from here."

Lily flushed at the suddenness of the attack; then she stiffened under it
and said coldly: "And may I ask where you mean me to go?"

"Back to Gerty in the first place, if you will; the essential thing is
that it should be away from here."

The unusual harshness of his tone might have shown her how much the words
cost him; but she was in no state to measure his feelings while her own
were in a flame of revolt. To neglect her, perhaps even to avoid her, at
a time when she had most need of her friends, and then suddenly and
unwarrantably to break into her life with this strange assumption of
authority, was to rouse in her every instinct of pride and self-defence.

"I am very much obliged to you," she said, "for taking such an interest
in my plans; but I am quite contented where I am, and have no intention
of leaving."

Selden had risen, and was standing before her in an attitude of
uncontrollable expectancy.

"That simply means that you don't know where you are!" he exclaimed.

Lily rose also, with a quick flash of anger. "If you have come here to
say disagreeable things about Mrs. Hatch----"

"It is only with your relation to Mrs. Hatch that I am concerned."

"My relation to Mrs. Hatch is one I have no reason to be ashamed of.  She
has helped me to earn a living when my old friends were quite resigned to
seeing me starve."

"Nonsense! Starvation is not the only alternative. You know you can
always find a home with Gerty till you are independent again."

"You show such an intimate acquaintance with my affairs that I suppose
you mean--till my aunt's legacy is paid?"

"I do mean that; Gerty told me of it," Selden acknowledged without
embarrassment. He was too much in earnest now to feel any false
constraint in speaking his mind.

"But Gerty does not happen to know," Miss Bart rejoined, "that I owe
every penny of that legacy."

"Good God!" Selden exclaimed, startled out of his composure by the
abruptness of the statement.

"Every penny of it, and more too," Lily repeated; "and you now perhaps
see why I prefer to remain with Mrs. Hatch rather than take advantage of
Gerty's kindness. I have no money left, except my small income, and I
must earn something more to keep myself alive."

Selden hesitated a moment; then he rejoined in a quieter tone: "But with
your income and Gerty's--since you allow me to go so far into the details
of the situation--you and she could surely contrive a life together which
would put you beyond the need of having to support yourself. Gerty, I
know, is eager to make such an arrangement, and would be quite happy in
it----"

"But I should not," Miss Bart interposed. "There are many reasons why it
would be neither kind to Gerty nor wise for myself." She paused a moment,
and as he seemed to await a farther explanation, added with a quick lift
of her head: "You will perhaps excuse me from giving you these reasons."

"I have no claim to know them," Selden answered, ignoring her tone; "no
claim to offer any comment or suggestion beyond the one I have already
made. And my right to make that is simply the universal right of a man to
enlighten a woman when he sees her unconsciously placed in a false
position."

Lily smiled. "I suppose," she rejoined, "that by a false position you
mean one outside of what we call society; but you must remember that I
had been excluded from those sacred precincts long before I met Mrs.
Hatch. As far as I can see, there is very little real difference in being
inside or out, and I remember your once telling me that it was only those
inside who took the difference seriously."

She had not been without intention in making this allusion to their
memorable talk at Bellomont, and she waited with an odd tremor of the
nerves to see what response it would bring; but the result of the
experiment was disappointing. Selden did not allow the allusion to
deflect him from his point; he merely said with completer fulness of
emphasis: "The question of being inside or out is, as you say, a small
one, and it happens to have nothing to do with the case, except in so far
as Mrs. Hatch's desire to be inside may put you in the position I call
false."

In spite of the moderation of his tone, each word he spoke had the effect
of confirming Lily's resistance. The very apprehensions he aroused
hardened her against him: she had been on the alert for the note of
personal sympathy, for any sign of recovered power over him; and his
attitude of sober impartiality, the absence of all response to her
appeal, turned her hurt pride to blind resentment of his interference.
The conviction that he had been sent by Gerty, and that, whatever straits
he conceived her to be in, he would never voluntarily have come to her
aid, strengthened her resolve not to admit him a hair's breadth farther
into her confidence. However doubtful she might feel her situation to be,
she would rather persist in darkness than owe her enlightenment to Selden.

"I don't know," she said, when he had ceased to speak, "why you imagine
me to be situated as you describe; but as you have always told me that
the sole object of a bringing-up like mine was to teach a girl to get
what she wants, why not assume that that is precisely what I am doing?"

The smile with which she summed up her case was like a clear barrier
raised against farther confidences: its brightness held him at such a
distance that he had a sense of being almost out of hearing as he
rejoined: "I am not sure that I have ever called you a successful example
of that kind of bringing-up."

Her colour rose a little at the implication, but she steeled herself with
a light laugh. "Ah, wait a little longer--give me a little more time
before you decide!" And as he wavered before her, still watching for a
break in the impenetrable front she presented: "Don't give me up; I may
still do credit to my training!" she affirmed.



Chapter 10

"Look at those spangles, Miss Bart--every one of 'em sewed on crooked."

The tall forewoman, a pinched perpendicular figure, dropped the condemned
structure of wire and net on the table at Lily's side, and passed on to
the next figure in the line.

There were twenty of them in the work-room, their fagged profiles, under
exaggerated hair, bowed in the harsh north light above the utensils of
their art; for it was something more than an industry, surely, this
creation of ever-varied settings for the face of fortunate womanhood.
Their own faces were sallow with the unwholesomeness of hot air and
sedentary toil, rather than with any actual signs of want: they were
employed in a fashionable millinery establishment, and were fairly well
clothed and well paid; but the youngest among them was as dull and
colourless as the middle-aged. In the whole work-room there was only one
skin beneath which the blood still visibly played; and that now burned
with vexation as Miss Bart, under the lash of the forewoman's comment,
began to strip the hat-frame of its over-lapping spangles.

To Gerty Farish's hopeful spirit a solution appeared to have been reached
when she remembered how beautifully Lily could trim hats.  Instances of
young lady-milliners establishing themselves under fashionable patronage,
and imparting to their "creations" that indefinable touch which the
professional hand can never give, had flattered Gerty's visions of the
future, and convinced even Lily that her separation from Mrs. Norma Hatch
need not reduce her to dependence on her friends.

The parting had occurred a few weeks after Selden's visit, and would have
taken place sooner had it not been for the resistance set up in Lily by
his ill-starred offer of advice. The sense of being involved in a
transaction she would not have cared to examine too closely had soon
afterward defined itself in the light of a hint from Mr. Stancy that, if
she "saw them through," she would have no reason to be sorry. The
implication that such loyalty would meet with a direct reward had
hastened her flight, and flung her back, ashamed and penitent, on the
broad bosom of Gerty's sympathy. She did not, however, propose to lie
there prone, and Gerty's inspiration about the hats at once revived her
hopes of profitable activity. Here was, after all, something that her
charming listless hands could really do; she had no doubt of their
capacity for knotting a ribbon or placing a flower to advantage. And of
course only these finishing touches would be expected of her: subordinate
fingers, blunt, grey, needle-pricked fingers, would prepare the shapes
and stitch the linings, while she presided over the charming little front
shop--a shop all white panels, mirrors, and moss-green hangings--where
her finished creations, hats, wreaths, aigrettes and the rest, perched on
their stands like birds just poising for flight.

But at the very outset of Gerty's campaign this vision of the
green-and-white shop had been dispelled. Other young ladies of fashion
had been thus "set-up," selling their hats by the mere attraction of a
name and the reputed knack of tying a bow; but these privileged beings
could command a faith in their powers materially expressed by the
readiness to pay their shop-rent and advance a handsome sum for current
expenses. Where was Lily to find such support? And even could it have
been found, how were the ladies on whose approval she depended to be
induced to give her their patronage? Gerty learned that whatever sympathy
her friend's case might have excited a few months since had been
imperilled, if not lost, by her association with Mrs. Hatch. Once again,
Lily had withdrawn from an ambiguous situation in time to save her
self-respect, but too late for public vindication.  Freddy Van Osburgh
was not to marry Mrs. Hatch; he had been rescued at the eleventh
hour--some said by the efforts of Gus Trenor and Rosedale--and despatched
to Europe with old Ned Van Alstyne; but the risk he had run would always
be ascribed to Miss Bart's connivance, and would somehow serve as a
summing-up and corroboration of the vague general distrust of her. It was
a relief to those who had hung back from her to find themselves thus
justified, and they were inclined to insist a little on her connection
with the Hatch case in order to show that they had been right.

Gerty's quest, at any rate, brought up against a solid wall of
resistance; and even when Carry Fisher, momentarily penitent for her
share in the Hatch affair, joined her efforts to Miss Farish's, they met
with no better success. Gerty had tried to veil her failure in tender
ambiguities; but Carry, always the soul of candour, put the case squarely
to her friend.

"I went straight to Judy Trenor; she has fewer prejudices than the
others, and besides she's always hated Bertha Dorset. But what HAVE you
done to her, Lily? At the very first word about giving you a start she
flamed out about some money you'd got from Gus; I never knew her so hot
before. You know she'll let him do anything but spend money on his
friends: the only reason she's decent to me now is that she knows I'm not
hard up.--He speculated for you, you say? Well, what's the harm? He had
no business to lose. He DIDN'T lose? Then what on earth--but I never
COULD understand you, Lily!"

The end of it was that, after anxious enquiry and much deliberation, Mrs.
Fisher and Gerty, for once oddly united in their effort to help their
friend, decided on placing her in the work-room of Mme. Regina's renowned
millinery establishment. Even this arrangement was not effected without
considerable negotiation, for Mme. Regina had a strong prejudice against
untrained assistance, and was induced to yield only by the fact that she
owed the patronage of Mrs. Bry and Mrs. Gormer to Carry Fisher's
influence. She had been willing from the first to employ Lily in the
show-room: as a displayer of hats, a fashionable beauty might be a
valuable asset. But to this suggestion Miss Bart opposed a negative which
Gerty emphatically supported, while Mrs. Fisher, inwardly unconvinced,
but resigned to this latest proof of Lily's unreason, agreed that perhaps
in the end it would be more useful that she should learn the trade. To
Regina's work-room Lily was therefore committed by her friends, and there
Mrs. Fisher left her with a sigh of relief, while Gerty's watchfulness
continued to hover over her at a distance.

Lily had taken up her work early in January: it was now two months later,
and she was still being rebuked for her inability to sew spangles on a
hat-frame. As she returned to her work she heard a titter pass down the
tables. She knew she was an object of criticism and amusement to the
other work-women. They were, of course, aware of her history--the exact
situation of every girl in the room was known and freely discussed by all
the others--but the knowledge did not produce in them any awkward sense
of class distinction: it merely explained why her untutored fingers were
still blundering over the rudiments of the trade.  Lily had no desire
that they should recognize any social difference in her; but she had
hoped to be received as their equal, and perhaps before long to show
herself their superior by a special deftness of touch, and it was
humiliating to find that, after two months of drudgery, she still
betrayed her lack of early training.  Remote was the day when she might
aspire to exercise the talents she felt confident of possessing; only
experienced workers were entrusted with the delicate art of shaping and
trimming the hat, and the forewoman still held her inexorably to the
routine of preparatory work.

She began to rip the spangles from the frame, listening absently to the
buzz of talk which rose and fell with the coming and going of Miss
Haines's active figure. The air was closer than usual, because Miss
Haines, who had a cold, had not allowed a window to be opened even during
the noon recess; and Lily's head was so heavy with the weight of a
sleepless night that the chatter of her companions had the incoherence of
a dream.

"I TOLD her he'd never look at her again; and he didn't. I wouldn't have,
either--I think she acted real mean to him. He took her to the Arion
Ball, and had a hack for her both ways....  She's taken ten bottles, and
her headaches don't seem no better--but she's written a testimonial to
say the first bottle cured her, and she got five dollars and her picture
in the paper.... Mrs. Trenor's hat? The one with the green Paradise?
Here, Miss Haines--it'll be ready right off.... That was one of the
Trenor girls here yesterday with Mrs. George Dorset.  How'd I know? Why,
Madam sent for me to alter the flower in that Virot hat--the blue tulle:
she's tall and slight, with her hair fuzzed out--a good deal like Mamie
Leach, on'y thinner...."

On and on it flowed, a current of meaningless sound, on which,
startlingly enough, a familiar name now and then floated to the surface.
It was the strangest part of Lily's strange experience, the hearing of
these names, the seeing the fragmentary and distorted image of the world
she had lived in reflected in the mirror of the working-girls' minds. She
had never before suspected the mixture of insatiable curiosity and
contemptuous freedom with which she and her kind were discussed in this
underworld of toilers who lived on their vanity and self-indulgence.
Every girl in Mme. Regina's work-room knew to whom the headgear in her
hands was destined, and had her opinion of its future wearer, and a
definite knowledge of the latter's place in the social system. That Lily
was a star fallen from that sky did not, after the first stir of
curiosity had subsided, materially add to their interest in her. She had
fallen, she had "gone under," and true to the ideal of their race, they
were awed only by success--by the gross tangible image of material
achievement. The consciousness of her different point of view merely kept
them at a little distance from her, as though she were a foreigner with
whom it was an effort to talk.

"Miss Bart, if you can't sew those spangles on more regular I guess you'd
better give the hat to Miss Kilroy."

Lily looked down ruefully at her handiwork. The forewoman was right: the
sewing on of the spangles was inexcusably bad. What made her so much more
clumsy than usual? Was it a growing distaste for her task, or actual
physical disability? She felt tired and confused: it was an effort to put
her thoughts together. She rose and handed the hat to Miss Kilroy, who
took it with a suppressed smile.

"I'm sorry; I'm afraid I am not well," she said to the forewoman.

Miss Haines offered no comment. From the first she had augured ill of
Mme. Regina's consenting to include a fashionable apprentice among her
workers. In that temple of art no raw beginners were wanted, and Miss
Haines would have been more than human had she not taken a certain
pleasure in seeing her forebodings confirmed.

"You'd better go back to binding edges," she said drily. Lily slipped out
last among the band of liberated work-women. She did not care to be
mingled in their noisy dispersal: once in the street, she always felt an
irresistible return to her old standpoint, an instinctive shrinking from
all that was unpolished and promiscuous. In the days--how distant they
now seemed!--when she had visited the Girls' Club with Gerty Farish, she
had felt an enlightened interest in the working-classes; but that was
because she looked down on them from above, from the happy altitude of
her grace and her beneficence. Now that she was on a level with them, the
point of view was less interesting.

She felt a touch on her arm, and met the penitent eye of Miss Kilroy.
"Miss Bart, I guess you can sew those spangles on as well as I can when
you're feeling right. Miss Haines didn't act fair to you."

Lily's colour rose at the unexpected advance: it was a long time since
real kindness had looked at her from any eyes but Gerty's.

"Oh, thank you: I'm not particularly well, but Miss Haines was right. I
AM clumsy."

"Well, it's mean work for anybody with a headache." Miss Kilroy paused
irresolutely. "You ought to go right home and lay down.  Ever try
orangeine?"

"Thank you." Lily held out her hand. "It's very kind of you--I mean to go
home."

She looked gratefully at Miss Kilroy, but neither knew what more to say.
Lily was aware that the other was on the point of offering to go home
with her, but she wanted to be alone and silent--even kindness, the sort
of kindness that Miss Kilroy could give, would have jarred on her just
then.

"Thank you," she repeated as she turned away.

She struck westward through the dreary March twilight, toward the street
where her boarding-house stood. She had resolutely refused Gerty's offer
of hospitality. Something of her mother's fierce shrinking from
observation and sympathy was beginning to develop in her, and the
promiscuity of small quarters and close intimacy seemed, on the whole,
less endurable than the solitude of a hall bedroom in a house where she
could come and go unremarked among other workers. For a while she had
been sustained by this desire for privacy and independence; but now,
perhaps from increasing physical weariness, the lassitude brought about
by hours of unwonted confinement, she was beginning to feel acutely the
ugliness and discomfort of her surroundings. The day's task done, she
dreaded to return to her narrow room, with its blotched wallpaper and
shabby paint; and she hated every step of the walk thither, through the
degradation of a New York street in the last stages of decline from
fashion to commerce.

But what she dreaded most of all was having to pass the chemist's at the
corner of Sixth Avenue. She had meant to take another street: she had
usually done so of late. But today her steps were irresistibly drawn
toward the flaring plate-glass corner; she tried to take the lower
crossing, but a laden dray crowded her back, and she struck across the
street obliquely, reaching the sidewalk just opposite the chemist's door.

Over the counter she caught the eye of the clerk who had waited on her
before, and slipped the prescription into his hand. There could be no
question about the prescription: it was a copy of one of Mrs. Hatch's,
obligingly furnished by that lady's chemist.  Lily was confident that the
clerk would fill it without hesitation; yet the nervous dread of a
refusal, or even of an expression of doubt, communicated itself to her
restless hands as she affected to examine the bottles of perfume stacked
on the glass case before her.

The clerk had read the prescription without comment; but in the act of
handing out the bottle he paused.

"You don't want to increase the dose, you know," he remarked.  Lily's
heart contracted.

What did he mean by looking at her in that way?

"Of course not," she murmured, holding out her hand.

"That's all right: it's a queer-acting drug. A drop or two more, and off
you go--the doctors don't know why."

The dread lest he should question her, or keep the bottle back, choked
the murmur of acquiescence in her throat; and when at length she emerged
safely from the shop she was almost dizzy with the intensity of her
relief. The mere touch of the packet thrilled her tired nerves with the
delicious promise of a night of sleep, and in the reaction from her
momentary fear she felt as if the first fumes of drowsiness were already
stealing over her.

In her confusion she stumbled against a man who was hurrying down the
last steps of the elevated station. He drew back, and she heard her name
uttered with surprise. It was Rosedale, fur-coated, glossy and
prosperous--but why did she seem to see him so far off, and as if through
a mist of splintered crystals?  Before she could account for the
phenomenon she found herself shaking hands with him. They had parted with
scorn on her side and anger upon his; but all trace of these emotions
seemed to vanish as their hands met, and she was only aware of a confused
wish that she might continue to hold fast to him.

"Why, what's the matter, Miss Lily? You're not well!" he exclaimed; and
she forced her lips into a pallid smile of reassurance.

"I'm a little tired--it's nothing. Stay with me a moment, please," she
faltered. That she should be asking this service of Rosedale!

He glanced at the dirty and unpropitious corner on which they stood, with
the shriek of the "elevated" and the tumult of trams and waggons
contending hideously in their ears.

"We can't stay here; but let me take you somewhere for a cup of tea.  The
LONGWORTH is only a few yards off, and there'll be no one there at this
hour."

A cup of tea in quiet, somewhere out of the noise and ugliness, seemed
for the moment the one solace she could bear. A few steps brought them to
the ladies' door of the hotel he had named, and a moment later he was
seated opposite to her, and the waiter had placed the tea-tray between
them.

"Not a drop of brandy or whiskey first? You look regularly done up, Miss
Lily. Well, take your tea strong, then; and, waiter, get a cushion for
the lady's back."

Lily smiled faintly at the injunction to take her tea strong. It was the
temptation she was always struggling to resist. Her craving for the keen
stimulant was forever conflicting with that other craving for sleep--the
midnight craving which only the little phial in her hand could still. But
today, at any rate, the tea could hardly be too strong: she counted on it
to pour warmth and resolution into her empty veins.

As she leaned back before him, her lids drooping in utter lassitude,
though the first warm draught already tinged her face with returning
life, Rosedale was seized afresh by the poignant surprise of her beauty.
The dark pencilling of fatigue under her eyes, the morbid blue-veined
pallour of the temples, brought out the brightness of her hair and lips,
as though all her ebbing vitality were centred there.  Against the dull
chocolate-coloured background of the restaurant, the purity of her head
stood out as it had never done in the most brightly-lit ball-room. He
looked at her with a startled uncomfortable feeling, as though her beauty
were a forgotten enemy that had lain in ambush and now sprang out on him
unawares.

To clear the air he tried to take an easy tone with her. "Why, Miss Lily,
I haven't seen you for an age. I didn't know what had become of you."

As he spoke, he was checked by an embarrassing sense of the complications
to which this might lead. Though he had not seen her he had heard of her;
he knew of her connection with Mrs. Hatch, and of the talk resulting from
it. Mrs. Hatch's MILIEU was one which he had once assiduously frequented,
and now as devoutly shunned.

Lily, to whom the tea had restored her usual clearness of mind, saw what
was in his thoughts and said with a slight smile: "You would not be
likely to know about me. I have joined the working classes."

He stared in genuine wonder. "You don't mean--? Why, what on earth are
you doing?"

"Learning to be a milliner--at least TRYING to learn," she hastily
qualified the statement.

Rosedale suppressed a low whistle of surprise. "Come off--you ain't
serious, are you?"

"Perfectly serious. I'm obliged to work for my living."

"But I understood--I thought you were with Norma Hatch."

"You heard I had gone to her as her secretary?"

"Something of the kind, I believe." He leaned forward to refill her cup.

Lily guessed the possibilities of embarrassment which the topic held for
him, and raising her eyes to his, she said suddenly: "I left her two
months ago."

Rosedale continued to fumble awkwardly with the tea-pot, and she felt
sure that he had heard what had been said of her. But what was there that
Rosedale did not hear?

"Wasn't it a soft berth?" he enquired, with an attempt at lightness.

"Too soft--one might have sunk in too deep." Lily rested one arm on the
edge of the table, and sat looking at him more intently than she had ever
looked before. An uncontrollable impulse was urging her to put her case
to this man, from whose curiosity she had always so fiercely defended
herself.

"You know Mrs. Hatch, I think? Well, perhaps you can understand that she
might make things too easy for one."

Rosedale looked faintly puzzled, and she remembered that allusiveness was
lost on him.

"It was no place for you, anyhow," he agreed, so suffused and immersed in
the light of her full gaze that he found himself being drawn into strange
depths of intimacy. He who had had to subsist on mere fugitive glances,
looks winged in flight and swiftly lost under covert, now found her eyes
settling on him with a brooding intensity that fairly dazzled him.

"I left," Lily continued, "lest people should say I was helping Mrs.
Hatch to marry Freddy Van Osburgh--who is not in the least too good for
her--and as they still continue to say it, I see that I might as well
have stayed where I was."

"Oh, Freddy----" Rosedale brushed aside the topic with an air of its
unimportance which gave a sense of the immense perspective he had
acquired. "Freddy don't count--but I knew YOU weren't mixed up in that.
It ain't your style."

Lily coloured slightly: she could not conceal from herself that the words
gave her pleasure. She would have liked to sit there, drinking more tea,
and continuing to talk of herself to Rosedale.  But the old habit of
observing the conventions reminded her that it was time to bring their
colloquy to an end, and she made a faint motion to push back her chair.

Rosedale stopped her with a protesting gesture. "Wait a minute--don't go
yet; sit quiet and rest a little longer. You look thoroughly played out.
And you haven't told me----" He broke off, conscious of going farther
than he had meant. She saw the struggle and understood it; understood
also the nature of the spell to which he yielded as, with his eyes on her
face, he began again abruptly: "What on earth did you mean by saying just
now that you were learning to be a milliner?"

"Just what I said. I am an apprentice at Regina's."

"Good Lord--YOU? But what for? I knew your aunt had turned you down: Mrs.
Fisher told me about it. But I understood you got a legacy from her----"

"I got ten thousand dollars; but the legacy is not to be paid till next
summer."

"Well, but--look here: you could BORROW on it any time you wanted."

She shook her head gravely. "No; for I owe it already."

"Owe it? The whole ten thousand?"

"Every penny." She paused, and then continued abruptly, with her eyes on
his face: "I think Gus Trenor spoke to you once about having made some
money for me in stocks."

She waited, and Rosedale, congested with embarrassment, muttered that he
remembered something of the kind.

"He made about nine thousand dollars," Lily pursued, in the same tone of
eager communicativeness. "At the time, I understood that he was
speculating with my own money: it was incredibly stupid of me, but I knew
nothing of business. Afterward I found out that he had NOT used my
money--that what he said he had made for me he had really given me. It
was meant in kindness, of course; but it was not the sort of obligation
one could remain under.  Unfortunately I had spent the money before I
discovered my mistake; and so my legacy will have to go to pay it back.
That is the reason why I am trying to learn a trade."

She made the statement clearly, deliberately, with pauses between the
sentences, so that each should have time to sink deeply into her hearer's
mind. She had a passionate desire that some one should know the truth
about this transaction, and also that the rumour of her intention to
repay the money should reach Judy Trenor's ears. And it had suddenly
occurred to her that Rosedale, who had surprised Trenor's confidence, was
the fitting person to receive and transmit her version of the facts. She
had even felt a momentary exhilaration at the thought of thus relieving
herself of her detested secret; but the sensation gradually faded in the
telling, and as she ended her pallour was suffused with a deep blush of
misery.

Rosedale continued to stare at her in wonder; but the wonder took the
turn she had least expected.

"But see here--if that's the case, it cleans you out altogether?"

He put it to her as if she had not grasped the consequences of her act;
as if her incorrigible ignorance of business were about to precipitate
her into a fresh act of folly.

"Altogether--yes," she calmly agreed.

He sat silent, his thick hands clasped on the table, his little puzzled
eyes exploring the recesses of the deserted restaurant.

"See here--that's fine," he exclaimed abruptly.

Lily rose from her seat with a deprecating laugh. "Oh, no--it's merely a
bore," she asserted, gathering together the ends of her feather scarf.

Rosedale remained seated, too intent on his thoughts to notice her
movement. "Miss Lily, if you want any backing--I like pluck----" broke
from him disconnectedly.

"Thank you." She held out her hand. "Your tea has given me a tremendous
backing. I feel equal to anything now."

Her gesture seemed to show a definite intention of dismissal, but her
companion had tossed a bill to the waiter, and was slipping his short
arms into his expensive overcoat.

"Wait a minute--you've got to let me walk home with you," he said.

Lily uttered no protest, and when he had paused to make sure of his
change they emerged from the hotel and crossed Sixth Avenue again. As she
led the way westward past a long line of areas which, through the
distortion of their paintless rails, revealed with increasing candour the
DISJECTA MEMBRA of bygone dinners, Lily felt that Rosedale was taking
contemptuous note of the neighbourhood; and before the doorstep at which
she finally paused he looked up with an air of incredulous disgust.

"This isn't the place? Some one told me you were living with Miss Farish."

"No: I am boarding here. I have lived too long on my friends."

He continued to scan the blistered brown stone front, the windows draped
with discoloured lace, and the Pompeian decoration of the muddy
vestibule; then he looked back at her face and said with a visible
effort: "You'll let me come and see you some day?"

She smiled, recognizing the heroism of the offer to the point of being
frankly touched by it. "Thank you--I shall be very glad," she made
answer, in the first sincere words she had ever spoken to him.



That evening in her own room Miss Bart--who had fled early from the heavy
fumes of the basement dinner-table--sat musing upon the impulse which had
led her to unbosom herself to Rosedale. Beneath it she discovered an
increasing sense of loneliness--a dread of returning to the solitude of
her room, while she could be anywhere else, or in any company but her
own. Circumstances, of late, had combined to cut her off more and more
from her few remaining friends. On Carry Fisher's part the withdrawal was
perhaps not quite involuntary. Having made her final effort on Lily's
behalf, and landed her safely in Mme. Regina's work-room, Mrs. Fisher
seemed disposed to rest from her labours; and Lily, understanding the
reason, could not condemn her. Carry had in fact come dangerously near to
being involved in the episode of Mrs. Norma Hatch, and it had taken some
verbal ingenuity to extricate herself. She frankly owned to having
brought Lily and Mrs. Hatch together, but then she did not know Mrs.
Hatch--she had expressly warned Lily that she did not know Mrs.
Hatch--and besides, she was not Lily's keeper, and really the girl was
old enough to take care of herself. Carry did not put her own case so
brutally, but she allowed it to be thus put for her by her latest bosom
friend, Mrs. Jack Stepney: Mrs. Stepney, trembling over the narrowness of
her only brother's escape, but eager to vindicate Mrs. Fisher, at whose
house she could count on the "jolly parties" which had become a necessity
to her since marriage had emancipated her from the Van Osburgh point of
view.

Lily understood the situation and could make allowances for it.  Carry
had been a good friend to her in difficult days, and perhaps only a
friendship like Gerty's could be proof against such an increasing strain.
Gerty's friendship did indeed hold fast; yet Lily was beginning to avoid
her also. For she could not go to Gerty's without risk of meeting Selden;
and to meet him now would be pure pain. It was pain enough even to think
of him, whether she considered him in the distinctness of her waking
thoughts, or felt the obsession of his presence through the blur of her
tormented nights. That was one of the reasons why she had turned again to
Mrs. Hatch's prescription. In the uneasy snatches of her natural dreams
he came to her sometimes in the old guise of fellowship and tenderness;
and she would rise from the sweet delusion mocked and emptied of her
courage. But in the sleep which the phial procured she sank far below
such half-waking visitations, sank into depths of dreamless annihilation
from which she woke each morning with an obliterated past.

Gradually, to be sure, the stress of the old thoughts would return; but
at least they did not importune her waking hour. The drug gave her a
momentary illusion of complete renewal, from which she drew strength to
take up her daily work. The strength was more and more needed as the
perplexities of her future increased. She knew that to Gerty and Mrs.
Fisher she was only passing through a temporary period of probation,
since they believed that the apprenticeship she was serving at Mme.
Regina's would enable her, when Mrs. Peniston's legacy was paid, to
realize the vision of the green-and-white shop with the fuller competence
acquired by her preliminary training. But to Lily herself, aware that the
legacy could not be put to such a use, the preliminary training seemed a
wasted effort. She understood clearly enough that, even if she could ever
learn to compete with hands formed from childhood for their special work,
the small pay she received would not be a sufficient addition to her
income to compensate her for such drudgery. And the realization of this
fact brought her recurringly face to face with the temptation to use the
legacy in establishing her business. Once installed, and in command of
her own work-women, she believed she had sufficient tact and ability to
attract a fashionable CLIENTELE; and if the business succeeded she could
gradually lay aside money enough to discharge her debt to Trenor. But the
task might take years to accomplish, even if she continued to stint
herself to the utmost; and meanwhile her pride would be crushed under the
weight of an intolerable obligation.

These were her superficial considerations; but under them lurked the
secret dread that the obligation might not always remain intolerable.
She knew she could not count on her continuity of purpose, and what
really frightened her was the thought that she might gradually
accommodate herself to remaining indefinitely in Trenor's debt, as she
had accommodated herself to the part allotted her on the Sabrina, and as
she had so nearly drifted into acquiescing with Stancy's scheme for the
advancement of Mrs. Hatch. Her danger lay, as she knew, in her old
incurable dread of discomfort and poverty; in the fear of that mounting
tide of dinginess against which her mother had so passionately warned
her. And now a new vista of peril opened before her. She understood that
Rosedale was ready to lend her money; and the longing to take advantage
of his offer began to haunt her insidiously. It was of course impossible
to accept a loan from Rosedale; but proximate possibilities hovered
temptingly before her. She was quite sure that he would come and see her
again, and almost sure that, if he did, she could bring him to the point
of offering to marry her on the terms she had previously rejected.  Would
she still reject them if they were offered? More and more, with every
fresh mischance befalling her, did the pursuing furies seem to take the
shape of Bertha Dorset; and close at hand, safely locked among her
papers, lay the means of ending their pursuit. The temptation, which her
scorn of Rosedale had once enabled her to reject, now insistently
returned upon her; and how much strength was left her to oppose it?

What little there was must at any rate be husbanded to the utmost; she
could not trust herself again to the perils of a sleepless night.
Through the long hours of silence the dark spirit of fatigue and
loneliness crouched upon her breast, leaving her so drained of bodily
strength that her morning thoughts swam in a haze of weakness. The only
hope of renewal lay in the little bottle at her bed-side; and how much
longer that hope would last she dared not conjecture.



Chapter 11

Lily, lingering for a moment on the corner, looked out on the afternoon
spectacle of Fifth Avenue. It was a day in late April, and the sweetness
of spring was in the air. It mitigated the ugliness of the long crowded
thoroughfare, blurred the gaunt roof-lines, threw a mauve veil over the
discouraging perspective of the side streets, and gave a touch of poetry
to the delicate haze of green that marked the entrance to the Park.

As Lily stood there, she recognized several familiar faces in the passing
carriages. The season was over, and its ruling forces had disbanded; but
a few still lingered, delaying their departure for Europe, or passing
through town on their return from the South.  Among them was Mrs. Van
Osburgh, swaying majestically in her C-spring barouche, with Mrs. Percy
Gryce at her side, and the new heir to the Gryce millions enthroned
before them on his nurse's knees. They were succeeded by Mrs. Hatch's
electric victoria, in which that lady reclined in the lonely splendour of
a spring toilet obviously designed for company; and a moment or two later
came Judy Trenor, accompanied by Lady Skiddaw, who had come over for her
annual tarpon fishing and a dip into "the street."

This fleeting glimpse of her past served to emphasize the sense of
aimlessness with which Lily at length turned toward home. She had nothing
to do for the rest of the day, nor for the days to come; for the season
was over in millinery as well as in society, and a week earlier Mme.
Regina had notified her that her services were no longer required. Mme.
Regina always reduced her staff on the first of May, and Miss Bart's
attendance had of late been so irregular--she had so often been unwell,
and had done so little work when she came--that it was only as a favour
that her dismissal had hitherto been deferred.

Lily did not question the justice of the decision. She was conscious of
having been forgetful, awkward and slow to learn. It was bitter to
acknowledge her inferiority even to herself, but the fact had been
brought home to her that as a bread-winner she could never compete with
professional ability.  Since she had been brought up to be ornamental,
she could hardly blame herself for failing to serve any practical
purpose; but the discovery put an end to her consoling sense of universal
efficiency.

As she turned homeward her thoughts shrank in anticipation from the fact
that there would be nothing to get up for the next morning. The luxury of
lying late in bed was a pleasure belonging to the life of ease; it had no
part in the utilitarian existence of the boarding-house. She liked to
leave her room early, and to return to it as late as possible; and she
was walking slowly now in order to postpone the detested approach to her
doorstep.

But the doorstep, as she drew near it, acquired a sudden interest from
the fact that it was occupied--and indeed filled--by the conspicuous
figure of Mr. Rosedale, whose presence seemed to take on an added
amplitude from the meanness of his surroundings.

The sight stirred Lily with an irresistible sense of triumph.  Rosedale,
a day or two after their chance meeting, had called to enquire if she had
recovered from her indisposition; but since then she had not seen or
heard from him, and his absence seemed to betoken a struggle to keep
away, to let her pass once more out of his life. If this were the case,
his return showed that the struggle had been unsuccessful, for Lily knew
he was not the man to waste his time in an ineffectual sentimental
dalliance. He was too busy, too practical, and above all too much
preoccupied with his own advancement, to indulge in such unprofitable
asides.

In the peacock-blue parlour, with its bunches of dried pampas grass, and
discoloured steel engravings of sentimental episodes, he looked about him
with unconcealed disgust, laying his hat distrustfully on the dusty
console adorned with a Rogers statuette.

Lily sat down on one of the plush and rosewood sofas, and he deposited
himself in a rocking-chair draped with a starched antimacassar which
scraped unpleasantly against the pink fold of skin above his collar.

"My goodness--you can't go on living here!" he exclaimed.

Lily smiled at his tone. "I am not sure that I can; but I have gone over
my expenses very carefully, and I rather think I shall be able to manage
it."

"Be able to manage it? That's not what I mean--it's no place for you!"

"It's what I mean; for I have been out of work for the last week."

"Out of work--out of work! What a way for you to talk! The idea of your
having to work--it's preposterous." He brought out his sentences in short
violent jerks, as though they were forced up from a deep inner crater of
indignation. "It's a farce--a crazy farce," he repeated, his eyes fixed
on the long vista of the room reflected in the blotched glass between the
windows.

Lily continued to meet his expostulations with a smile. "I don't know why
I should regard myself as an exception----" she began.

"Because you ARE; that's why; and your being in a place like this is a
damnable outrage. I can't talk of it calmly."

She had in truth never seen him so shaken out of his usual glibness; and
there was something almost moving to her in his inarticulate struggle
with his emotions.

He rose with a start which left the rocking-chair quivering on its beam
ends, and placed himself squarely before her.

"Look here, Miss Lily, I'm going to Europe next week: going over to Paris
and London for a couple of months--and I can't leave you like this. I
can't do it. I know it's none of my business--you've let me understand
that often enough; but things are worse with you now than they have been
before, and you must see that you've got to accept help from somebody.
You spoke to me the other day about some debt to Trenor.  I know what you
mean--and I respect you for feeling as you do about it."

A blush of surprise rose to Lily's pale face, but before she could
interrupt him he had continued eagerly: "Well, I'll lend you the money to
pay Trenor; and I won't--I--see here, don't take me up till I've
finished. What I mean is, it'll be a plain business arrangement, such as
one man would make with another.  Now, what have you got to say against
that?"

Lily's blush deepened to a glow in which humiliation and gratitude were
mingled; and both sentiments revealed themselves in the unexpected
gentleness of her reply.

"Only this: that it is exactly what Gus Trenor proposed; and that I can
never again be sure of understanding the plainest business arrangement."
Then, realizing that this answer contained a germ of injustice, she
added, even more kindly: "Not that I don't appreciate your kindness--that
I'm not grateful for it. But a business arrangement between us would in
any case be impossible, because I shall have no security to give when my
debt to Gus Trenor has been paid."

Rosedale received this statement in silence: he seemed to feel the note
of finality in her voice, yet to be unable to accept it as closing the
question between them.

In the silence Lily had a clear perception of what was passing through
his mind. Whatever perplexity he felt as to the inexorableness of her
course--however little he penetrated its motive--she saw that it
unmistakably tended to strengthen her hold over him. It was as though the
sense in her of unexplained scruples and resistances had the same
attraction as the delicacy of feature, the fastidiousness of manner,
which gave her an external rarity, an air of being impossible to match.
As he advanced in social experience this uniqueness had acquired a
greater value for him, as though he were a collector who had learned to
distinguish minor differences of design and quality in some long-coveted
object.

Lily, perceiving all this, understood that he would marry her at once, on
the sole condition of a reconciliation with Mrs. Dorset; and the
temptation was the less easy to put aside because, little by little,
circumstances were breaking down her dislike for Rosedale. The dislike,
indeed, still subsisted; but it was penetrated here and there by the
perception of mitigating qualities in him: of a certain gross kindliness,
a rather helpless fidelity of sentiment, which seemed to be struggling
through the hard surface of his material ambitions.

Reading his dismissal in her eyes, he held out his hand with a gesture
which conveyed something of this inarticulate conflict.

"If you'd only let me, I'd set you up over them all--I'd put you where
you could wipe your feet on 'em!" he declared; and it touched her oddly
to see that his new passion had not altered his old standard of values.



Lily took no sleeping-drops that night. She lay awake viewing her
situation in the crude light which Rosedale's visit had shed on it. In
fending off the offer he was so plainly ready to renew, had she not
sacrificed to one of those abstract notions of honour that might be
called the conventionalities of the moral life?  What debt did she owe to
a social order which had condemned and banished her without trial?  She
had never been heard in her own defence; she was innocent of the charge
on which she had been found guilty; and the irregularity of her
conviction might seem to justify the use of methods as irregular in
recovering her lost rights. Bertha Dorset, to save herself, had not
scrupled to ruin her by an open falsehood; why should she hesitate to
make private use of the facts that chance had put in her way? After all,
half the opprobrium of such an act lies in the name attached to it.  Call
it blackmail and it becomes unthinkable; but explain that it injures no
one, and that the rights regained by it were unjustly forfeited, and he
must be a formalist indeed who can find no plea in its defence.

The arguments pleading for it with Lily were the old unanswerable ones of
the personal situation: the sense of injury, the sense of failure, the
passionate craving for a fair chance against the selfish despotism of
society. She had learned by experience that she had neither the aptitude
nor the moral constancy to remake her life on new lines; to become a
worker among workers, and let the world of luxury and pleasure sweep by
her unregarded. She could not hold herself much to blame for this
ineffectiveness, and she was perhaps less to blame than she believed.
Inherited tendencies had combined with early training to make her the
highly specialized product she was: an organism as helpless out of its
narrow range as the sea-anemone torn from the rock. She had been
fashioned to adorn and delight; to what other end does nature round the
rose-leaf and paint the humming-bird's breast?  And was it her fault that
the purely decorative mission is less easily and harmoniously fulfilled
among social beings than in the world of nature? That it is apt to be
hampered by material necessities or complicated by moral scruples?

These last were the two antagonistic forces which fought out their battle
in her breast during the long watches of the night; and when she rose the
next morning she hardly knew where the victory lay. She was exhausted by
the reaction of a night without sleep, coming after many nights of rest
artificially obtained; and in the distorting light of fatigue the future
stretched out before her grey, interminable and desolate.

She lay late in bed, refusing the coffee and fried eggs which the
friendly Irish servant thrust through her door, and hating the intimate
domestic noises of the house and the cries and rumblings of the street.
Her week of idleness had brought home to her with exaggerated force these
small aggravations of the boarding-house world, and she yearned for that
other luxurious world, whose machinery is so carefully concealed that one
scene flows into another without perceptible agency.

At length she rose and dressed. Since she had left Mme. Regina's she had
spent her days in the streets, partly to escape from the uncongenial
promiscuities of the boarding-house, and partly in the hope that physical
fatigue would help her to sleep. But once out of the house, she could not
decide where to go; for she had avoided Gerty since her dismissal from
the milliner's, and she was not sure of a welcome anywhere else.

The morning was in harsh contrast to the previous day. A cold grey sky
threatened rain, and a high wind drove the dust in wild spirals up and
down the streets. Lily walked up Fifth Avenue toward the Park, hoping to
find a sheltered nook where she might sit; but the wind chilled her, and
after an hour's wandering under the tossing boughs she yielded to her
increasing weariness, and took refuge in a little restaurant in
Fifty-ninth Street. She was not hungry, and had meant to go without
luncheon; but she was too tired to return home, and the long perspective
of white tables showed alluringly through the windows.

The room was full of women and girls, all too much engaged in the rapid
absorption of tea and pie to remark her entrance. A hum of shrill voices
reverberated against the low ceiling, leaving Lily shut out in a little
circle of silence. She felt a sudden pang of profound loneliness. She had
lost the sense of time, and it seemed to her as though she had not spoken
to any one for days. Her eyes sought the faces about her, craving a
responsive glance, some sign of an intuition of her trouble. But the
sallow preoccupied women, with their bags and note-books and rolls of
music, were all engrossed in their own affairs, and even those who sat by
themselves were busy running over proof-sheets or devouring magazines
between their hurried gulps of tea.  Lily alone was stranded in a great
waste of disoccupation.

She drank several cups of the tea which was served with her portion of
stewed oysters, and her brain felt clearer and livelier when she emerged
once more into the street. She realized now that, as she sat in the
restaurant, she had unconsciously arrived at a final decision. The
discovery gave her an immediate illusion of activity: it was exhilarating
to think that she had actually a reason for hurrying home.  To prolong
her enjoyment of the sensation she decided to walk; but the distance was
so great that she found herself glancing nervously at the clocks on the
way. One of the surprises of her unoccupied state was the discovery that
time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it,
cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace.  Usually it loiters;
but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly
break into a wild irrational gallop.

She found, however, on reaching home, that the hour was still early
enough for her to sit down and rest a few minutes before putting her plan
into execution. The delay did not perceptibly weaken her resolve.  She
was frightened and yet stimulated by the reserved force of resolution
which she felt within herself: she saw it was going to be easier, a great
deal easier, than she had imagined.

At five o'clock she rose, unlocked her trunk, and took out a sealed
packet which she slipped into the bosom of her dress. Even the contact
with the packet did not shake her nerves as she had half-expected it
would. She seemed encased in a strong armour of indifference, as though
the vigorous exertion of her will had finally benumbed her finer
sensibilities.

She dressed herself once more for the street, locked her door and went
out. When she emerged on the pavement, the day was still high, but a
threat of rain darkened the sky and cold gusts shook the signs projecting
from the basement shops along the street. She reached Fifth Avenue and
began to walk slowly northward. She was sufficiently familiar with Mrs.
Dorset's habits to know that she could always be found at home after
five.  She might not, indeed, be accessible to visitors, especially to a
visitor so unwelcome, and against whom it was quite possible that she had
guarded herself by special orders; but Lily had written a note which she
meant to send up with her name, and which she thought would secure her
admission.

She had allowed herself time to walk to Mrs. Dorset's, thinking that the
quick movement through the cold evening air would help to steady her
nerves; but she really felt no need of being tranquillized. Her survey of
the situation remained calm and unwavering.

As she reached Fiftieth Street the clouds broke abruptly, and a rush of
cold rain slanted into her face. She had no umbrella and the moisture
quickly penetrated her thin spring dress. She was still half a mile from
her destination, and she decided to walk across to Madison Avenue and
take the electric car. As she turned into the side street, a vague memory
stirred in her. The row of budding trees, the new brick and limestone
house-fronts, the Georgian flat-house with flowerboxes on its balconies,
were merged together into the setting of a familiar scene.  It was down
this street that she had walked with Selden, that September day two years
ago; a few yards ahead was the doorway they had entered together. The
recollection loosened a throng of benumbed sensations--longings, regrets,
imaginings, the throbbing brood of the only spring her heart had ever
known. It was strange to find herself passing his house on such an
errand. She seemed suddenly to see her action as he would see it--and the
fact of his own connection with it, the fact that, to attain her end, she
must trade on his name, and profit by a secret of his past, chilled her
blood with shame. What a long way she had travelled since the day of
their first talk together!  Even then her feet had been set in the path
she was now following--even then she had resisted the hand he had held
out.

All her resentment of his fancied coldness was swept away in this
overwhelming rush of recollection. Twice he had been ready to help
her--to help her by loving her, as he had said--and if, the third time,
he had seemed to fail her, whom but herself could she accuse? . . .
Well, that part of her life was over; she did not know why her thoughts
still clung to it. But the sudden longing to see him remained; it grew to
hunger as she paused on the pavement opposite his door. The street was
dark and empty, swept by the rain. She had a vision of his quiet room, of
the bookshelves, and the fire on the hearth. She looked up and saw a
light in his window; then she crossed the street and entered the house.



Chapter 12

The library looked as she had pictured it. The green-shaded lamps made
tranquil circles of light in the gathering dusk, a little fire flickered
on the hearth, and Selden's easy-chair, which stood near it, had been
pushed aside when he rose to admit her.

He had checked his first movement of surprise, and stood silent, waiting
for her to speak, while she paused a moment on the threshold, assailed by
a rush of memories.

The scene was unchanged. She recognized the row of shelves from which he
had taken down his La Bruyere, and the worn arm of the chair he had
leaned against while she examined the precious volume. But then the wide
September light had filled the room, making it seem a part of the outer
world: now the shaded lamps and the warm hearth, detaching it from the
gathering darkness of the street, gave it a sweeter touch of intimacy.

Becoming gradually aware of the surprise under Selden's silence, Lily
turned to him and said simply: "I came to tell you that I was sorry for
the way we parted--for what I said to you that day at Mrs. Hatch's."

The words rose to her lips spontaneously. Even on her way up the stairs,
she had not thought of preparing a pretext for her visit, but she now
felt an intense longing to dispel the cloud of misunderstanding that hung
between them.

Selden returned her look with a smile. "I was sorry too that we should
have parted in that way; but I am not sure I didn't bring it on myself.
Luckily I had foreseen the risk I was taking----"

"So that you really didn't care----?" broke from her with a flash of her
old irony.

"So that I was prepared for the consequences," he corrected
good-humouredly. "But we'll talk of all this later. Do come and sit by
the fire. I can recommend that arm-chair, if you'll let me put a cushion
behind you."

While he spoke she had moved slowly to the middle of the room, and paused
near his writing-table, where the lamp, striking upward, cast exaggerated
shadows on the pallour of her delicately-hollowed face.

"You look tired--do sit down," he repeated gently.

She did not seem to hear the request. "I wanted you to know that I left
Mrs. Hatch immediately after I saw you," she said, as though continuing
her confession.

"Yes--yes; I know," he assented, with a rising tinge of embarrassment.

"And that I did so because you told me to. Before you came I had already
begun to see that it would be impossible to remain with her--for the
reasons you gave me; but I wouldn't admit it--I wouldn't let you see that
I understood what you meant."

"Ah, I might have trusted you to find your own way out--don't overwhelm
me with the sense of my officiousness!"

His light tone, in which, had her nerves been steadier, she would have
recognized the mere effort to bridge over an awkward moment, jarred on
her passionate desire to be understood. In her strange state of
extra-lucidity, which gave her the sense of being already at the heart of
the situation, it seemed incredible that any one should think it
necessary to linger in the conventional outskirts of word-play and
evasion.

"It was not that--I was not ungrateful," she insisted. But the power of
expression failed her suddenly; she felt a tremor in her throat, and two
tears gathered and fell slowly from her eyes.

Selden moved forward and took her hand. "You are very tired. Why won't
you sit down and let me make you comfortable?"

He drew her to the arm-chair near the fire, and placed a cushion behind
her shoulders.

"And now you must let me make you some tea: you know I always have that
amount of hospitality at my command."

She shook her head, and two more tears ran over. But she did not weep
easily, and the long habit of self-control reasserted itself, though she
was still too tremulous to speak.

"You know I can coax the water to boil in five minutes," Selden
continued, speaking as though she were a troubled child.

His words recalled the vision of that other afternoon when they had sat
together over his tea-table and talked jestingly of her future. There
were moments when that day seemed more remote than any other event in her
life; and yet she could always relive it in its minutest detail.

She made a gesture of refusal. "No: I drink too much tea. I would rather
sit quiet--I must go in a moment," she added confusedly.

Selden continued to stand near her, leaning against the mantelpiece.  The
tinge of constraint was beginning to be more distinctly perceptible under
the friendly ease of his manner. Her self-absorption had not allowed her
to perceive it at first; but now that her consciousness was once more
putting forth its eager feelers, she saw that her presence was becoming
an embarrassment to him. Such a situation can be saved only by an
immediate outrush of feeling; and on Selden's side the determining
impulse was still lacking.

The discovery did not disturb Lily as it might once have done.  She had
passed beyond the phase of well-bred reciprocity, in which every
demonstration must be scrupulously proportioned to the emotion it
elicits, and generosity of feeling is the only ostentation condemned.
But the sense of loneliness returned with redoubled force as she saw
herself forever shut out from Selden's inmost self. She had come to him
with no definite purpose; the mere longing to see him had directed her;
but the secret hope she had carried with her suddenly revealed itself in
its death-pang.

"I must go," she repeated, making a motion to rise from her chair. "But I
may not see you again for a long time, and I wanted to tell you that I
have never forgotten the things you said to me at Bellomont, and that
sometimes--sometimes when I seemed farthest from remembering them--they
have helped me, and kept me from mistakes; kept me from really becoming
what many people have thought me."

Strive as she would to put some order in her thoughts, the words would
not come more clearly; yet she felt that she could not leave him without
trying to make him understand that she had saved herself whole from the
seeming ruin of her life.

A change had come over Selden's face as she spoke. Its guarded look had
yielded to an expression still untinged by personal emotion, but full of
a gentle understanding.

"I am glad to have you tell me that; but nothing I have said has really
made the difference. The difference is in yourself--it will always be
there. And since it IS there, it can't really matter to you what people
think: you are so sure that your friends will always understand you."

"Ah, don't say that--don't say that what you have told me has made no
difference. It seems to shut me out--to leave me all alone with the other
people." She had risen and stood before him, once more completely
mastered by the inner urgency of the moment.  The consciousness of his
half-divined reluctance had vanished.  Whether he wished it or not, he
must see her wholly for once before they parted.

Her voice had gathered strength, and she looked him gravely in the eyes
as she continued. "Once--twice--you gave me the chance to escape from my
life, and I refused it: refused it because I was a coward. Afterward I
saw my mistake--I saw I could never be happy with what had contented me
before. But it was too late: you had judged me--I understood. It was too
late for happiness--but not too late to be helped by the thought of what
I had missed.  That is all I have lived on--don't take it from me now!
Even in my worst moments it has been like a little light in the darkness.
Some women are strong enough to be good by themselves, but I needed the
help of your belief in me. Perhaps I might have resisted a great
temptation, but the little ones would have pulled me down. And then I
remembered--I remembered your saying that such a life could never satisfy
me; and I was ashamed to admit to myself that it could.  That is what you
did for me--that is what I wanted to thank you for. I wanted to tell you
that I have always remembered; and that I have tried--tried hard . . ."

She broke off suddenly. Her tears had risen again, and in drawing out her
handkerchief her fingers touched the packet in the folds of her dress. A
wave of colour suffused her, and the words died on her lips.  Then she
lifted her eyes to his and went on in an altered voice.

"I have tried hard--but life is difficult, and I am a very useless
person. I can hardly be said to have an independent existence. I was just
a screw or a cog in the great machine I called life, and when I dropped
out of it I found I was of no use anywhere else. What can one do when one
finds that one only fits into one hole? One must get back to it or be
thrown out into the rubbish heap--and you don't know what it's like in
the rubbish heap!"

Her lips wavered into a smile--she had been distracted by the whimsical
remembrance of the confidences she had made to him, two years earlier, in
that very room. Then she had been planning to marry Percy Gryce--what was
it she was planning now?

The blood had risen strongly under Selden's dark skin, but his emotion
showed itself only in an added seriousness of manner.

"You have something to tell me--do you mean to marry?" he said abruptly.

Lily's eyes did not falter, but a look of wonder, of puzzled
self-interrogation, formed itself slowly in their depths. In the light of
his question, she had paused to ask herself if her decision had really
been taken when she entered the room.

"You always told me I should have to come to it sooner or later!" she
said with a faint smile.

"And you have come to it now?"

"I shall have to come to it--presently. But there is something else I
must come to first." She paused again, trying to transmit to her voice
the steadiness of her recovered smile. "There is some one I must say
goodbye to. Oh, not YOU--we are sure to see each other again--but the
Lily Bart you knew. I have kept her with me all this time, but now we are
going to part, and I have brought her back to you--I am going to leave
her here. When I go out presently she will not go with me. I shall like
to think that she has stayed with you--and she'll be no trouble, she'll
take up no room."

She went toward him, and put out her hand, still smiling. "Will you let
her stay with you?" she asked.

He caught her hand, and she felt in his the vibration of feeling that had
not yet risen to his lips. "Lily--can't I help you?" he exclaimed.

She looked at him gently. "Do you remember what you said to me once?
That you could help me only by loving me? Well--you did love me for a
moment; and it helped me. It has always helped me. But the moment is
gone--it was I who let it go. And one must go on living. Goodbye."

She laid her other hand on his, and they looked at each other with a kind
of solemnity, as though they stood in the presence of death.  Something
in truth lay dead between them--the love she had killed in him and could
no longer call to life. But something lived between them also, and leaped
up in her like an imperishable flame: it was the love his love had
kindled, the passion of her soul for his.

In its light everything else dwindled and fell away from her. She
understood now that she could not go forth and leave her old self with
him: that self must indeed live on in his presence, but it must still
continue to be hers.

Selden had retained her hand, and continued to scrutinize her with a
strange sense of foreboding. The external aspect of the situation had
vanished for him as completely as for her: he felt it only as one of
those rare moments which lift the veil from their faces as they pass.

"Lily," he said in a low voice, "you mustn't speak in this way. I can't
let you go without knowing what you mean to do. Things may change--but
they don't pass. You can never go out of my life."

She met his eyes with an illumined look. "No," she said. "I see that now.
Let us always be friends. Then I shall feel safe, whatever happens."

"Whatever happens? What do you mean? What is going to happen?"

She turned away quietly and walked toward the hearth.

"Nothing at present--except that I am very cold, and that before I go you
must make up the fire for me."

She knelt on the hearth-rug, stretching her hands to the embers.  Puzzled
by the sudden change in her tone, he mechanically gathered a handful of
wood from the basket and tossed it on the fire. As he did so, he noticed
how thin her hands looked against the rising light of the flames. He saw
too, under the loose lines of her dress, how the curves of her figure had
shrunk to angularity; he remembered long afterward how the red play of
the flame sharpened the depression of her nostrils, and intensified the
blackness of the shadows which struck up from her cheekbones to her eyes.
She knelt there for a few moments in silence; a silence which he dared
not break. When she rose he fancied that he saw her draw something from
her dress and drop it into the fire; but he hardly noticed the gesture at
the time. His faculties seemed tranced, and he was still groping for the
word to break the spell. She went up to him and laid her hands on his
shoulders.  "Goodbye," she said, and as he bent over her she touched his
forehead with her lips.



Chapter 13

The street-lamps were lit, but the rain had ceased, and there was a
momentary revival of light in the upper sky. Lily walked on unconscious
of her surroundings. She was still treading the buoyant ether which
emanates from the high moments of life. But gradually it shrank away from
her and she felt the dull pavement beneath her feet. The sense of
weariness returned with accumulated force, and for a moment she felt that
she could walk no farther. She had reached the corner of Forty-first
Street and Fifth Avenue, and she remembered that in Bryant Park there
were seats where she might rest.

That melancholy pleasure-ground was almost deserted when she entered it,
and she sank down on an empty bench in the glare of an electric
street-lamp. The warmth of the fire had passed out of her veins, and she
told herself that she must not sit long in the penetrating dampness which
struck up from the wet asphalt. But her will-power seemed to have spent
itself in a last great effort, and she was lost in the blank reaction
which follows on an unwonted expenditure of energy. And besides, what was
there to go home to? Nothing but the silence of her cheerless room--that
silence of the night which may be more racking to tired nerves than the
most discordant noises: that, and the bottle of chloral by her bed. The
thought of the chloral was the only spot of light in the dark prospect:
she could feel its lulling influence stealing over her already. But she
was troubled by the thought that it was losing its power--she dared not
go back to it too soon. Of late the sleep it had brought her had been
more broken and less profound; there had been nights when she was
perpetually floating up through it to consciousness. What if the effect
of the drug should gradually fail, as all narcotics were said to fail?
She remembered the chemist's warning against increasing the dose; and she
had heard before of the capricious and incalculable action of the drug.
Her dread of returning to a sleepless night was so great that she
lingered on, hoping that excessive weariness would reinforce the waning
power of the chloral.

Night had now closed in, and the roar of traffic in Forty-second Street
was dying out. As complete darkness fell on the square the lingering
occupants of the benches rose and dispersed; but now and then a stray
figure, hurrying homeward, struck across the path where Lily sat, looming
black for a moment in the white circle of electric light. One or two of
these passers-by slackened their pace to glance curiously at her lonely
figure; but she was hardly conscious of their scrutiny.

Suddenly, however, she became aware that one of the passing shadows
remained stationary between her line of vision and the gleaming asphalt;
and raising her eyes she saw a young woman bending over her.

"Excuse me--are you sick?--Why, it's Miss Bart!" a half-familiar voice
exclaimed.

Lily looked up. The speaker was a poorly-dressed young woman with a
bundle under her arm. Her face had the air of unwholesome refinement
which ill-health and over-work may produce, but its common prettiness was
redeemed by the strong and generous curve of the lips.

"You don't remember me," she continued, brightening with the pleasure of
recognition, "but I'd know you anywhere, I've thought of you such a lot.
I guess my folks all know your name by heart.  I was one of the girls at
Miss Farish's club--you helped me to go to the country that time I had
lung-trouble. My name's Nettie Struther. It was Nettie Crane then--but I
daresay you don't remember that either."

Yes: Lily was beginning to remember. The episode of Nettie Crane's timely
rescue from disease had been one of the most satisfying incidents of her
connection with Gerty's charitable work. She had furnished the girl with
the means to go to a sanatorium in the mountains: it struck her now with
a peculiar irony that the money she had used had been Gus Trenor's.

She tried to reply, to assure the speaker that she had not forgotten; but
her voice failed in the effort, and she felt herself sinking under a
great wave of physical weakness. Nettie Struther, with a startled
exclamation, sat down and slipped a shabbily-clad arm behind her back.

"Why, Miss Bart, you ARE sick. Just lean on me a little till you feel
better."

A faint glow of returning strength seemed to pass into Lily from the
pressure of the supporting arm.

"I'm only tired--it is nothing," she found voice to say in a moment; and
then, as she met the timid appeal of her companion's eyes, she added
involuntarily: "I have been unhappy--in great trouble."

"YOU in trouble? I've always thought of you as being so high up, where
everything was just grand. Sometimes, when I felt real mean, and got to
wondering why things were so queerly fixed in the world, I used to
remember that you were having a lovely time, anyhow, and that seemed to
show there was a kind of justice somewhere. But you mustn't sit here too
long--it's fearfully damp. Don't you feel strong enough to walk on a
little ways now?" she broke off.

"Yes--yes; I must go home," Lily murmured, rising.

Her eyes rested wonderingly on the thin shabby figure at her side. She
had known Nettie Crane as one of the discouraged victims of over-work and
anaemic parentage: one of the superfluous fragments of life destined to
be swept prematurely into that social refuse-heap of which Lily had so
lately expressed her dread. But Nettie Struther's frail envelope was now
alive with hope and energy: whatever fate the future reserved for her,
she would not be cast into the refuse-heap without a struggle.

"I am very glad to have seen you," Lily continued, summoning a smile to
her unsteady lips. "It'll be my turn to think of you as happy--and the
world will seem a less unjust place to me too."

"Oh, but I can't leave you like this--you're not fit to go home alone.
And I can't go with you either!" Nettie Struther wailed with a start of
recollection. "You see, it's my husband's night-shift--he's a
motor-man--and the friend I leave the baby with has to step upstairs to
get HER husband's supper at seven. I didn't tell you I had a baby, did I?
She'll be four months old day after tomorrow, and to look at her you
wouldn't think I'd ever had a sick day. I'd give anything to show you the
baby, Miss Bart, and we live right down the street here--it's only three
blocks off." She lifted her eyes tentatively to Lily's face, and then
added with a burst of courage: "Why won't you get right into the cars and
come home with me while I get baby's supper?  It's real warm in our
kitchen, and you can rest there, and I'll take YOU home as soon as ever
she drops off to sleep."

It WAS warm in the kitchen, which, when Nettie Struther's match had made
a flame leap from the gas-jet above the table, revealed itself to Lily as
extraordinarily small and almost miraculously clean. A fire shone through
the polished flanks of the iron stove, and near it stood a crib in which
a baby was sitting upright, with incipient anxiety struggling for
expression on a countenance still placid with sleep.

Having passionately celebrated her reunion with her offspring, and
excused herself in cryptic language for the lateness of her return,
Nettie restored the baby to the crib and shyly invited Miss Bart to the
rocking-chair near the stove.

"We've got a parlour too," she explained with pardonable pride; "but I
guess it's warmer in here, and I don't want to leave you alone while I'm
getting baby's supper."

On receiving Lily's assurance that she much preferred the friendly
proximity of the kitchen fire, Mrs. Struther proceeded to prepare a
bottle of infantile food, which she tenderly applied to the baby's
impatient lips; and while the ensuing degustation went on, she seated
herself with a beaming countenance beside her visitor.

"You're sure you won't let me warm up a drop of coffee for you, Miss
Bart? There's some of baby's fresh milk left over--well, maybe you'd
rather just sit quiet and rest a little while. It's too lovely having you
here. I've thought of it so often that I can't believe it's really come
true. I've said to George again and again: 'I just wish Miss Bart could
see me NOW--' and I used to watch for your name in the papers, and we'd
talk over what you were doing, and read the descriptions of the dresses
you wore. I haven't seen your name for a long time, though, and I began
to be afraid you were sick, and it worried me so that George said I'd get
sick myself, fretting about it." Her lips broke into a reminiscent smile.
"Well, I can't afford to be sick again, that's a fact: the last spell
nearly finished me. When you sent me off that time I never thought I'd
come back alive, and I didn't much care if I did. You see I didn't know
about George and the baby then."

She paused to readjust the bottle to the child's bubbling mouth.

"You precious--don't you be in too much of a hurry! Was it mad with
mommer for getting its supper so late? Marry Anto'nette--that's what we
call her: after the French queen in that play at the Garden--I told
George the actress reminded me of you, and that made me fancy the
name . . . I never thought I'd get married, you know, and I'd never have
had the heart to go on working just for myself."

She broke off again, and meeting the encouragement in Lily's eyes, went
on, with a flush rising under her anaemic skin: "You see I wasn't only
just SICK that time you sent me off--I was dreadfully unhappy too. I'd
known a gentleman where I was employed--I don't know as you remember I
did type-writing in a big importing firm--and--well--I thought we were to
be married: he'd gone steady with me six months and given me his mother's
wedding ring. But I presume he was too stylish for me--he travelled for
the firm, and had seen a great deal of society.  Work girls aren't looked
after the way you are, and they don't always know how to look after
themselves. I didn't . . . and it pretty near killed me when he went away
and left off writing . . .

"It was then I came down sick--I thought it was the end of everything. I
guess it would have been if you hadn't sent me off.  But when I found I
was getting well I began to take heart in spite of myself.  And then,
when I got back home, George came round and asked me to marry him. At
first I thought I couldn't, because we'd been brought up together, and I
knew he knew about me. But after a while I began to see that that made it
easier. I never could have told another man, and I'd never have married
without telling; but if George cared for me enough to have me as I was, I
didn't see why I shouldn't begin over again--and I did."

The strength of the victory shone forth from her as she lifted her
irradiated face from the child on her knees. "But, mercy, I didn't mean
to go on like this about myself, with you sitting there looking so fagged
out. Only it's so lovely having you here, and letting you see just how
you've helped me." The baby had sunk back blissfully replete, and Mrs.
Struther softly rose to lay the bottle aside. Then she paused before Miss
Bart.

"I only wish I could help YOU--but I suppose there's nothing on earth I
could do," she murmured wistfully.

Lily, instead of answering, rose with a smile and held out her arms; and
the mother, understanding the gesture, laid her child in them.

The baby, feeling herself detached from her habitual anchorage, made an
instinctive motion of resistance; but the soothing influences of
digestion prevailed, and Lily felt the soft weight sink trustfully
against her breast. The child's confidence in its safety thrilled her
with a sense of warmth and returning life, and she bent over, wondering
at the rosy blur of the little face, the empty clearness of the eyes, the
vague tendrilly motions of the folding and unfolding fingers. At first
the burden in her arms seemed as light as a pink cloud or a heap of down,
but as she continued to hold it the weight increased, sinking deeper, and
penetrating her with a strange sense of weakness, as though the child
entered into her and became a part of herself.

She looked up, and saw Nettie's eyes resting on her with tenderness and
exultation.

"Wouldn't it be too lovely for anything if she could grow up to be just
like you? Of course I know she never COULD--but mothers are always
dreaming the craziest things for their children."

Lily clasped the child close for a moment and laid her back in her
mother's arms.

"Oh, she must not do that--I should be afraid to come and see her too
often!" she said with a smile; and then, resisting Mrs. Struther's
anxious offer of companionship, and reiterating the promise that of
course she would come back soon, and make George's acquaintance, and see
the baby in her bath, she passed out of the kitchen and went alone down
the tenement stairs.



As she reached the street she realized that she felt stronger and
happier: the little episode had done her good. It was the first time she
had ever come across the results of her spasmodic benevolence, and the
surprised sense of human fellowship took the mortal chill from her heart.

It was not till she entered her own door that she felt the reaction of a
deeper loneliness. It was long after seven o'clock, and the light and
odours proceeding from the basement made it manifest that the
boarding-house dinner had begun. She hastened up to her room, lit the
gas, and began to dress. She did not mean to pamper herself any longer,
to go without food because her surroundings made it unpalatable. Since it
was her fate to live in a boarding-house, she must learn to fall in with
the conditions of the life. Nevertheless she was glad that, when she
descended to the heat and glare of the dining-room, the repast was nearly
over.



In her own room again, she was seized with a sudden fever of activity.
For weeks past she had been too listless and indifferent to set her
possessions in order, but now she began to examine systematically the
contents of her drawers and cupboard.  She had a few handsome dresses
left--survivals of her last phase of splendour, on the Sabrina and in
London--but when she had been obliged to part with her maid she had given
the woman a generous share of her cast-off apparel. The remaining
dresses, though they had lost their freshness, still kept the long
unerring lines, the sweep and amplitude of the great artist's stroke, and
as she spread them out on the bed the scenes in which they had been worn
rose vividly before her. An association lurked in every fold: each fall
of lace and gleam of embroidery was like a letter in the record of her
past. She was startled to find how the atmosphere of her old life
enveloped her. But, after all, it was the life she had been made for:
every dawning tendency in her had been carefully directed toward it, all
her interests and activities had been taught to centre around it.  She
was like some rare flower grown for exhibition, a flower from which every
bud had been nipped except the crowning blossom of her beauty.

Last of all, she drew forth from the bottom of her trunk a heap of white
drapery which fell shapelessly across her arm. It was the Reynolds dress
she had worn in the Bry TABLEAUX. It had been impossible for her to give
it away, but she had never seen it since that night, and the long
flexible folds, as she shook them out, gave forth an odour of violets
which came to her like a breath from the flower-edged fountain where she
had stood with Lawrence Selden and disowned her fate. She put back the
dresses one by one, laying away with each some gleam of light, some note
of laughter, some stray waft from the rosy shores of pleasure. She was
still in a state of highly-wrought impressionability, and every hint of
the past sent a lingering tremor along her nerves.

She had just closed her trunk on the white folds of the Reynolds dress
when she heard a tap at her door, and the red fist of the Irish
maid-servant thrust in a belated letter. Carrying it to the light, Lily
read with surprise the address stamped on the upper corner of the
envelope. It was a business communication from the office of her aunt's
executors, and she wondered what unexpected development had caused them
to break silence before the appointed time. She opened the envelope and a
cheque fluttered to the floor. As she stooped to pick it up the blood
rushed to her face.  The cheque represented the full amount of Mrs.
Peniston's legacy, and the letter accompanying it explained that the
executors, having adjusted the business of the estate with less delay
than they had expected, had decided to anticipate the date fixed for the
payment of the bequests.

Lily sat down beside the desk at the foot of her bed, and spreading out
the cheque, read over and over the TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS written across it
in a steely business hand. Ten months earlier the amount it stood for had
represented the depths of penury; but her standard of values had changed
in the interval, and now visions of wealth lurked in every flourish of
the pen. As she continued to gaze at it, she felt the glitter of the
visions mounting to her brain, and after a while she lifted the lid of
the desk and slipped the magic formula out of sight.  It was easier to
think without those five figures dancing before her eyes; and she had a
great deal of thinking to do before she slept.

She opened her cheque-book, and plunged into such anxious calculations as
had prolonged her vigil at Bellomont on the night when she had decided to
marry Percy Gryce. Poverty simplifies book-keeping, and her financial
situation was easier to ascertain than it had been then; but she had not
yet learned the control of money, and during her transient phase of
luxury at the Emporium she had slipped back into habits of extravagance
which still impaired her slender balance. A careful examination of her
cheque-book, and of the unpaid bills in her desk, showed that, when the
latter had been settled, she would have barely enough to live on for the
next three or four months; and even after that, if she were to continue
her present way of living, without earning any additional money, all
incidental expenses must be reduced to the vanishing point. She hid her
eyes with a shudder, beholding herself at the entrance of that
ever-narrowing perspective down which she had seen Miss Silverton's dowdy
figure take its despondent way.

It was no longer, however, from the vision of material poverty that she
turned with the greatest shrinking. She had a sense of deeper
empoverishment--of an inner destitution compared to which outward
conditions dwindled into insignificance. It was indeed miserable to be
poor--to look forward to a shabby, anxious middle-age, leading by dreary
degrees of economy and self-denial to gradual absorption in the dingy
communal existence of the boarding-house. But there was something more
miserable still--it was the clutch of solitude at her heart, the sense of
being swept like a stray uprooted growth down the heedless current of the
years. That was the feeling which possessed her now--the feeling of being
something rootless and ephemeral, mere spin-drift of the whirling surface
of existence, without anything to which the poor little tentacles of self
could cling before the awful flood submerged them. And as she looked back
she saw that there had never been a time when she had had any real
relation to life. Her parents too had been rootless, blown hither and
thither on every wind of fashion, without any personal existence to
shelter them from its shifting gusts. She herself had grown up without
any one spot of earth being dearer to her than another: there was no
centre of early pieties, of grave endearing traditions, to which her
heart could revert and from which it could draw strength for itself and
tenderness for others. In whatever form a slowly-accumulated past lives
in the blood--whether in the concrete image of the old house stored with
visual memories, or in the conception of the house not built with hands,
but made up of inherited passions and loyalties--it has the same power of
broadening and deepening the individual existence, of attaching it by
mysterious links of kinship to all the mighty sum of human striving.

Such a vision of the solidarity of life had never before come to Lily.
She had had a premonition of it in the blind motions of her
mating-instinct; but they had been checked by the disintegrating
influences of the life about her. All the men and women she knew were
like atoms whirling away from each other in some wild centrifugal dance:
her first glimpse of the continuity of life had come to her that evening
in Nettie Struther's kitchen.

The poor little working-girl who had found strength to gather up the
fragments of her life, and build herself a shelter with them, seemed to
Lily to have reached the central truth of existence. It was a meagre
enough life, on the grim edge of poverty, with scant margin for
possibilities of sickness or mischance, but it had the frail audacious
permanence of a bird's nest built on the edge of a cliff--a mere wisp of
leaves and straw, yet so put together that the lives entrusted to it may
hang safely over the abyss.

Yes--but it had taken two to build the nest; the man's faith as well as
the woman's courage. Lily remembered Nettie's words: I KNEW HE KNEW ABOUT
ME. Her husband's faith in her had made her renewal possible--it is so
easy for a woman to become what the man she loves believes her to be!
Well--Selden had twice been ready to stake his faith on Lily Bart; but
the third trial had been too severe for his endurance. The very quality
of his love had made it the more impossible to recall to life.  If it had
been a simple instinct of the blood, the power of her beauty might have
revived it. But the fact that it struck deeper, that it was inextricably
wound up with inherited habits of thought and feeling, made it as
impossible to restore to growth as a deep-rooted plant torn from its bed.
Selden had given her of his best; but he was as incapable as herself of
an uncritical return to former states of feeling.

There remained to her, as she had told him, the uplifting memory of his
faith in her; but she had not reached the age when a woman can live on
her memories. As she held Nettie Struther's child in her arms the frozen
currents of youth had loosed themselves and run warm in her veins: the
old life-hunger possessed her, and all her being clamoured for its share
of personal happiness. Yes--it was happiness she still wanted, and the
glimpse she had caught of it made everything else of no account. One by
one she had detached herself from the baser possibilities, and she saw
that nothing now remained to her but the emptiness of renunciation.

It was growing late, and an immense weariness once more possessed her.
It was not the stealing sense of sleep, but a vivid wakeful fatigue, a
wan lucidity of mind against which all the possibilities of the future
were shadowed forth gigantically. She was appalled by the intense
cleanness of the vision; she seemed to have broken through the merciful
veil which intervenes between intention and action, and to see exactly
what she would do in all the long days to come. There was the cheque in
her desk, for instance--she meant to use it in paying her debt to Trenor;
but she foresaw that when the morning came she would put off doing so,
would slip into gradual tolerance of the debt. The thought terrified
her--she dreaded to fall from the height of her last moment with Lawrence
Selden. But how could she trust herself to keep her footing? She knew the
strength of the opposing impulses-she could feel the countless hands of
habit dragging her back into some fresh compromise with fate. She felt an
intense longing to prolong, to perpetuate, the momentary exaltation of
her spirit. If only life could end now--end on this tragic yet sweet
vision of lost possibilities, which gave her a sense of kinship with all
the loving and foregoing in the world!

She reached out suddenly and, drawing the cheque from her writing-desk,
enclosed it in an envelope which she addressed to her bank. She then
wrote out a cheque for Trenor, and placing it, without an accompanying
word, in an envelope inscribed with his name, laid the two letters side
by side on her desk. After that she continued to sit at the table,
sorting her papers and writing, till the intense silence of the house
reminded her of the lateness of the hour. In the street the noise of
wheels had ceased, and the rumble of the "elevated" came only at long
intervals through the deep unnatural hush. In the mysterious nocturnal
separation from all outward signs of life, she felt herself more
strangely confronted with her fate. The sensation made her brain reel,
and she tried to shut out consciousness by pressing her hands against her
eyes. But the terrible silence and emptiness seemed to symbolize her
future--she felt as though the house, the street, the world were all
empty, and she alone left sentient in a lifeless universe.

But this was the verge of delirium . . . she had never hung so near the
dizzy brink of the unreal. Sleep was what she wanted--she remembered that
she had not closed her eyes for two nights. The little bottle was at her
bed-side, waiting to lay its spell upon her. She rose and undressed
hastily, hungering now for the touch of her pillow. She felt so
profoundly tired that she thought she must fall asleep at once; but as
soon as she had lain down every nerve started once more into separate
wakefulness. It was as though a great blaze of electric light had been
turned on in her head, and her poor little anguished self shrank and
cowered in it, without knowing where to take refuge.

She had not imagined that such a multiplication of wakefulness was
possible: her whole past was reenacting itself at a hundred different
points of consciousness. Where was the drug that could still this legion
of insurgent nerves? The sense of exhaustion would have been sweet
compared to this shrill beat of activities; but weariness had dropped
from her as though some cruel stimulant had been forced into her veins.

She could bear it--yes, she could bear it; but what strength would be
left her the next day? Perspective had disappeared--the next day pressed
close upon her, and on its heels came the days that were to follow--they
swarmed about her like a shrieking mob.  She must shut them out for a few
hours; she must take a brief bath of oblivion. She put out her hand, and
measured the soothing drops into a glass; but as she did so, she knew
they would be powerless against the supernatural lucidity of her brain.
She had long since raised the dose to its highest limit, but tonight she
felt she must increase it. She knew she took a slight risk in doing
so--she remembered the chemist's warning.  If sleep came at all, it might
be a sleep without waking. But after all that was but one chance in a
hundred: the action of the drug was incalculable, and the addition of a
few drops to the regular dose would probably do no more than procure for
her the rest she so desperately needed....

She did not, in truth, consider the question very closely--the physical
craving for sleep was her only sustained sensation. Her mind shrank from
the glare of thought as instinctively as eyes contract in a blaze of
light--darkness, darkness was what she must have at any cost. She raised
herself in bed and swallowed the contents of the glass; then she blew out
her candle and lay down.

She lay very still, waiting with a sensuous pleasure for the first
effects of the soporific. She knew in advance what form they would
take--the gradual cessation of the inner throb, the soft approach of
passiveness, as though an invisible hand made magic passes over her in
the darkness. The very slowness and hesitancy of the effect increased its
fascination: it was delicious to lean over and look down into the dim
abysses of unconsciousness. Tonight the drug seemed to work more slowly
than usual: each passionate pulse had to be stilled in turn, and it was
long before she felt them dropping into abeyance, like sentinels falling
asleep at their posts. But gradually the sense of complete subjugation
came over her, and she wondered languidly what had made her feel so
uneasy and excited. She saw now that there was nothing to be excited
about--she had returned to her normal view of life. Tomorrow would not be
so difficult after all: she felt sure that she would have the strength to
meet it.  She did not quite remember what it was that she had been afraid
to meet, but the uncertainty no longer troubled her. She had been
unhappy, and now she was happy--she had felt herself alone, and now the
sense of loneliness had vanished.

She stirred once, and turned on her side, and as she did so, she suddenly
understood why she did not feel herself alone. It was odd--but Nettie
Struther's child was lying on her arm: she felt the pressure of its
little head against her shoulder. She did not know how it had come there,
but she felt no great surprise at the fact, only a gentle penetrating
thrill of warmth and pleasure.  She settled herself into an easier
position, hollowing her arm to pillow the round downy head, and holding
her breath lest a sound should disturb the sleeping child.

As she lay there she said to herself that there was something she must
tell Selden, some word she had found that should make life clear between
them. She tried to repeat the word, which lingered vague and luminous on
the far edge of thought--she was afraid of not remembering it when she
woke; and if she could only remember it and say it to him, she felt that
everything would be well.

Slowly the thought of the word faded, and sleep began to enfold her.  She
struggled faintly against it, feeling that she ought to keep awake on
account of the baby; but even this feeling was gradually lost in an
indistinct sense of drowsy peace, through which, of a sudden, a dark
flash of loneliness and terror tore its way.

She started up again, cold and trembling with the shock: for a moment she
seemed to have lost her hold of the child. But no--she was mistaken--the
tender pressure of its body was still close to hers: the recovered warmth
flowed through her once more, she yielded to it, sank into it, and slept.



Chapter 14

The next morning rose mild and bright, with a promise of summer in the
air. The sunlight slanted joyously down Lily's street, mellowed the
blistered house-front, gilded the paintless railings of the door-step,
and struck prismatic glories from the panes of her darkened window.

When such a day coincides with the inner mood there is intoxication in
its breath; and Selden, hastening along the street through the squalor of
its morning confidences, felt himself thrilling with a youthful sense of
adventure. He had cut loose from the familiar shores of habit, and
launched himself on uncharted seas of emotion; all the old tests and
measures were left behind, and his course was to be shaped by new stars.

That course, for the moment, led merely to Miss Bart's boarding-house;
but its shabby door-step had suddenly become the threshold of the
untried. As he approached he looked up at the triple row of windows,
wondering boyishly which one of them was hers. It was nine o'clock, and
the house, being tenanted by workers, already showed an awakened front to
the street. He remembered afterward having noticed that only one blind
was down.  He noticed too that there was a pot of pansies on one of the
window sills, and at once concluded that the window must be hers: it was
inevitable that he should connect her with the one touch of beauty in the
dingy scene.

Nine o'clock was an early hour for a visit, but Selden had passed beyond
all such conventional observances. He only knew that he must see Lily
Bart at once--he had found the word he meant to say to her, and it could
not wait another moment to be said. It was strange that it had not come
to his lips sooner--that he had let her pass from him the evening before
without being able to speak it. But what did that matter, now that a new
day had come? It was not a word for twilight, but for the morning.

Selden ran eagerly up the steps and pulled the bell; and even in his
state of self-absorption it came as a sharp surprise to him that the door
should open so promptly. It was still more of a surprise to see, as he
entered, that it had been opened by Gerty Farish--and that behind her, in
an agitated blur, several other figures ominously loomed.

"Lawrence!" Gerty cried in a strange voice, "how could you get here so
quickly?"--and the trembling hand she laid on him seemed instantly to
close about his heart.

He noticed the other faces, vague with fear and conjecture--he saw the
landlady's imposing bulk sway professionally toward him; but he shrank
back, putting up his hand, while his eyes mechanically mounted the steep
black walnut stairs, up which he was immediately aware that his cousin
was about to lead him.

A voice in the background said that the doctor might be back at any
minute--and that nothing, upstairs, was to be disturbed. Some one else
exclaimed: "It was the greatest mercy--" then Selden felt that Gerty had
taken him gently by the hand, and that they were to be suffered to go up
alone.

In silence they mounted the three flights, and walked along the passage
to a closed door. Gerty opened the door, and Selden went in after her.
Though the blind was down, the irresistible sunlight poured a tempered
golden flood into the room, and in its light Selden saw a narrow bed
along the wall, and on the bed, with motionless hands and calm
unrecognizing face, the semblance of Lily Bart.

That it was her real self, every pulse in him ardently denied.  Her real
self had lain warm on his heart but a few hours earlier--what had he to
do with this estranged and tranquil face which, for the first time,
neither paled nor brightened at his coming?

Gerty, strangely tranquil too, with the conscious self-control of one who
has ministered to much pain, stood by the bed, speaking gently, as if
transmitting a final message.

"The doctor found a bottle of chloral--she had been sleeping badly for a
long time, and she must have taken an overdose by mistake.... There is no
doubt of that--no doubt--there will be no question--he has been very
kind. I told him that you and I would like to be left alone with her--to
go over her things before any one else comes. I know it is what she would
have wished."

Selden was hardly conscious of what she said. He stood looking down on
the sleeping face which seemed to lie like a delicate impalpable mask
over the living lineaments he had known.  He felt that the real Lily was
still there, close to him, yet invisible and inaccessible; and the
tenuity of the barrier between them mocked him with a sense of
helplessness. There had never been more than a little impalpable barrier
between them--and yet he had suffered it to keep them apart!  And now,
though it seemed slighter and frailer than ever, it had suddenly hardened
to adamant, and he might beat his life out against it in vain.

He had dropped on his knees beside the bed, but a touch from Gerty
aroused him. He stood up, and as their eyes met he was struck by the
extraordinary light in his cousin's face.

"You understand what the doctor has gone for? He has promised that there
shall be no trouble--but of course the formalities must be gone through.
And I asked him to give us time to look through her things first----"

He nodded, and she glanced about the small bare room. "It won't take
long," she concluded.

"No--it won't take long," he agreed.

She held his hand in hers a moment longer, and then, with a last look at
the bed, moved silently toward the door. On the threshold she paused to
add: "You will find me downstairs if you want me."

Selden roused himself to detain her. "But why are you going? She would
have wished----"

Gerty shook her head with a smile. "No: this is what she would have
wished----" and as she spoke a light broke through Selden's stony misery,
and he saw deep into the hidden things of love.

The door closed on Gerty, and he stood alone with the motionless sleeper
on the bed. His impulse was to return to her side, to fall on his knees,
and rest his throbbing head against the peaceful cheek on the pillow.
They had never been at peace together, they two; and now he felt himself
drawn downward into the strange mysterious depths of her tranquillity.

But he remembered Gerty's warning words--he knew that, though time had
ceased in this room, its feet were hastening relentlessly toward the
door. Gerty had given him this supreme half-hour, and he must use it as
she willed.

He turned and looked about him, sternly compelling himself to regain his
consciousness of outward things. There was very little furniture in the
room. The shabby chest of drawers was spread with a lace cover, and set
out with a few gold-topped boxes and bottles, a rose-coloured
pin-cushion, a glass tray strewn with tortoise-shell hair-pins--he shrank
from the poignant intimacy of these trifles, and from the blank surface
of the toilet-mirror above them.

These were the only traces of luxury, of that clinging to the minute
observance of personal seemliness, which showed what her other
renunciations must have cost. There was no other token of her personality
about the room, unless it showed itself in the scrupulous neatness of the
scant articles of furniture: a washing-stand, two chairs, a small
writing-desk, and the little table near the bed. On this table stood the
empty bottle and glass, and from these also he averted his eyes.

The desk was closed, but on its slanting lid lay two letters which he
took up. One bore the address of a bank, and as it was stamped and
sealed, Selden, after a moment's hesitation, laid it aside. On the other
letter he read Gus Trenor's name; and the flap of the envelope was still
ungummed.

Temptation leapt on him like the stab of a knife. He staggered under it,
steadying himself against the desk. Why had she been writing to
Trenor--writing, presumably, just after their parting of the previous
evening? The thought unhallowed the memory of that last hour, made a mock
of the word he had come to speak, and defiled even the reconciling
silence upon which it fell. He felt himself flung back on all the ugly
uncertainties from which he thought he had cast loose forever. After all,
what did he know of her life? Only as much as she had chosen to show him,
and measured by the world's estimate, how little that was! By what
right--the letter in his hand seemed to ask--by what right was it he who
now passed into her confidence through the gate which death had left
unbarred? His heart cried out that it was by right of their last hour
together, the hour when she herself had placed the key in his hand.
Yes--but what if the letter to Trenor had been written afterward?

He put it from him with sudden loathing, and setting his lips, addressed
himself resolutely to what remained of his task. After all, that task
would be easier to perform, now that his personal stake in it was
annulled.

He raised the lid of the desk, and saw within it a cheque-book and a few
packets of bills and letters, arranged with the orderly precision which
characterized all her personal habits. He looked through the letters
first, because it was the most difficult part of the work. They proved to
be few and unimportant, but among them he found, with a strange commotion
of the heart, the note he had written her the day after the Brys'
entertainment.

"When may I come to you?"--his words overwhelmed him with a realization
of the cowardice which had driven him from her at the very moment of
attainment. Yes--he had always feared his fate, and he was too honest to
disown his cowardice now; for had not all his old doubts started to life
again at the mere sight of Trenor's name?

He laid the note in his card-case, folding it away carefully, as
something made precious by the fact that she had held it so; then,
growing once more aware of the lapse of time, he continued his
examination of the papers.

To his surprise, he found that all the bills were receipted; there was
not an unpaid account among them. He opened the cheque-book, and saw
that, the very night before, a cheque of ten thousand dollars from Mrs.
Peniston's executors had been entered in it. The legacy, then, had been
paid sooner than Gerty had led him to expect. But, turning another page
or two, he discovered with astonishment that, in spite of this recent
accession of funds, the balance had already declined to a few dollars.  A
rapid glance at the stubs of the last cheques, all of which bore the date
of the previous day, showed that between four or five hundred dollars of
the legacy had been spent in the settlement of bills, while the remaining
thousands were comprehended in one cheque, made out, at the same time, to
Charles Augustus Trenor.

Selden laid the book aside, and sank into the chair beside the desk. He
leaned his elbows on it, and hid his face in his hands. The bitter waters
of life surged high about him, their sterile taste was on his lips. Did
the cheque to Trenor explain the mystery or deepen it? At first his mind
refused to act--he felt only the taint of such a transaction between a
man like Trenor and a girl like Lily Bart. Then, gradually, his troubled
vision cleared, old hints and rumours came back to him, and out of the
very insinuations he had feared to probe, he constructed an explanation
of the mystery. It was true, then, that she had taken money from Trenor;
but true also, as the contents of the little desk declared, that the
obligation had been intolerable to her, and that at the first opportunity
she had freed herself from it, though the act left her face to face with
bare unmitigated poverty.

That was all he knew--all he could hope to unravel of the story.  The
mute lips on the pillow refused him more than this--unless indeed they
had told him the rest in the kiss they had left upon his forehead. Yes,
he could now read into that farewell all that his heart craved to find
there; he could even draw from it courage not to accuse himself for
having failed to reach the height of his opportunity.

He saw that all the conditions of life had conspired to keep them apart;
since his very detachment from the external influences which swayed her
had increased his spiritual fastidiousness, and made it more difficult
for him to live and love uncritically. But at least he HAD loved her--had
been willing to stake his future on his faith in her--and if the moment
had been fated to pass from them before they could seize it, he saw now
that, for both, it had been saved whole out of the ruin of their lives.

It was this moment of love, this fleeting victory over themselves, which
had kept them from atrophy and extinction; which, in her, had reached out
to him in every struggle against the influence of her surroundings, and
in him, had kept alive the faith that now drew him penitent and
reconciled to her side.

He knelt by the bed and bent over her, draining their last moment to its
lees; and in the silence there passed between them the word which made
all clear.



THE END




Notes:

1.  I have modernized this text by modernizing the contractions: do n't
becomes don't, etc.

2.  I have retained the British spelling of words like favour and colour.

3.  I found and corrected one instance of the name "Gertie," which I
changed to "Gerty" to be consistent with rest of the book.

Linda Ruoff







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