diff options
Diffstat (limited to '78615-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 78615-0.txt | 9664 |
1 files changed, 9664 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/78615-0.txt b/78615-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..116b5a9 --- /dev/null +++ b/78615-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9664 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78615 *** + + + + + THE TIDE + + + + + RECENT BORZOI NOVELS + + + THREE PILGRIMS AND A TINKER + MARY BORDEN + + THE TATTOOED COUNTESS + CARL VAN VECHTEN + + THE ETERNAL HUNTRESS + RAYNER SEELIG + + THE FIRE IN THE FLINT + WALTER F. WHITE + + THE LORD OF THE SEA + M. P. SHIEL + + BALISAND + JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER + + SOUND AND FURY + JAMES HENLE + + TREASURE TRAIL + ROLAND PERTWEE + + WINGS + ETHEL M. KELLEY + + ORDEAL + DALE COLLINS + + + + + MILDRED CRAM + + _The Tide_ + + [Illustration] + + + [Illustration] + + _New York_ · 1924 + + ALFRED · A · KNOPF + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1923, 1924, BY MILDRED CRAM · PUBLISHED, + OCTOBER, 1924. · SET UP, ELECTROTYPED + AND PRINTED BY THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY, + RAHWAY, N. J. · ESPARTO PAPER MANUFACTURED + IN SCOTLAND AND FURNISHED BY W. F. ETHERINGTON + & CO., NEW YORK. · BOUND BY THE H. WOLFF + ESTATE, NEW YORK, N. Y. + + MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + +TO MY HUSBAND + + + + +I + + +Lilah closed the door of the apartment and walked slowly across the +living-room to the window, removing her black hat and the chiffon veil +which had about it an unpleasant and penetrating odor of mourning. The +silence was good. To be rid of all those people, those eyes, trying to +gauge her grief, to measure it, as if it were soluble! Tears! Suppose +she hadn’t shed enough? Then they would have said that she had not +loved her father.... + +Well, she had. + +Now she could do as she pleased about everything. She turned her back +to the window and with quick, critical eyes appraised the room her +father had liked to call the “library.” He had brought his books and +possessions from Ohio to New York when he accepted the professorship at +Columbia. “No, my dear, we mustn’t leave this, or this--these things +are very precious to me. They are--sanctified.” + +Sanctified! A little burst of laughter shook Lilah. She wanted to sweep +everything into a great heap and set a match to it; to make a bonfire +of sanctified ugliness. + +She felt very young and invincible as she stood there with her back +to the window. She had asked to be alone because she was afraid of +the exuberance that had taken possession of her on the way back +from the cemetery. Everything had looked so fresh, so gay, so +desirable--streets, houses, little flocks of sparrows, people passing +with disinterested glances at the long procession of funeral hacks. She +had wanted to jump out and walk. But she had kept her handkerchief over +her face to hide the upward curving of her lips, the look she knew must +be there of eagerness. She had gone through the business of burying +her father famously, had made all the conventional gestures. Something +within her had said: “I am free. This is the beginning for me.” + +She was sorry that she had pitied her father. She would have preferred +to admire him. He had never understood, as she understood, life or +men. A failure, he had capitalized his defeat. She had seen through +him--his artful gentleness, his calculated patience, his martyrdom. He +never complained, but his eyes looked out at you like a startled deer; +you had a feeling that you had hurt him in some way. He was forever +turning the other cheek, accepting reverses and disappointments with +enthusiasm, as saints have worn and rejoiced in hair shirts. + +Lilah thought: “Did I love him? Of course I did. Old hypocrite! I +shouldn’t. He lived his own life and never gave a thought to mine. And +he has left me penniless. He made me love beautiful things and I’ve got +to shift for myself in order to get them. But I loved him.” + +She remembered his hands, large, hairy hands with freckles, that had +groped for hers in those last, terrified moments of wavering. And her +heart contracted with a deep pity, a shame, a pervading loneliness. +She began to cry.... + +She would save the books, of course. They were valuable. Her father, +who had been a gluttonous reader, had had excellent taste. Most of his +salary had gone into first editions--that rare Aretino, the Baudelaire, +the exquisite copy of Vasari’s “Vita di Leonardo da Vinci.” All the +book clerks in the city had gone to the funeral. He had belonged to +that rare genus, the veritable connoisseur. + +“Your father was a wonderful man, Miss Norris. Wonderful. I’ll always +remember him prowling up and down between the shelves, peering and +questioning. He knew how to handle books! _He_ never broke their backs!” + +Wiping the tears away, Lilah went into her bedroom. She hated herself +in black; she was too blonde and too slender. She decided, leaning +forward to stare at herself in the dressing-table mirror, that she +was positively plain.... And she made a little face at herself. She +undressed slowly, slipping out of the black dress she had bought for +the funeral. Then, sitting on the edge of the bed in her underthings, +she took stock of herself. She could still see herself in the mirror, +rather blurred by the dim light, but charming, not plain now that the +black was gone and her eyes were free of tears. She was one of those +women who take a serious pleasure in regarding themselves; she was +never unconscious of her cleverly modeled face, the misty quality of +her loveliness. And because of this preoccupation, her expression was +watchful, with something petulant in the droop of her mouth. She was +small and compact; she had the broad shoulders and meager hips of +a boy. Her hands were too large but she had inherited her mother’s +pointed and lustrous nails and a certain fineness, almost an elegance +of gesture. She was strong but indolent; she disliked fussy, unsteady +people. + +She turned her head and gravely studied another angle of her face; she +had always taken a peculiar delight in the possession of her own nose; +its blunt, deft outlines were modern, audacious, “funny.” How lucky +not to be aquiline, or worse, Roman! It was part of her good fortune +to have been born in physical key with her period. She would have been +considered ugly in the sixteenth, the eighteenth centuries; in the +twentieth, she was delightful because her features were irregular and +provocative. + +She thought again: “I am alone.” + +All young lives, she reflected, must begin, be founded upon, the +death of some one already old. From the stale and disillusioned, such +soaring as hers! For she meant to soar. Change, decline, a difference +in her delicious outline, were remote and unimaginable calamities. She +remembered, with a shudder, her father’s last year. He had seemed to +surrender too easily to the little habits of senility--he had not been +always--quite nice. Why were old people so pathetic, so remote, so +unaware of their lack of grace? + +Now, she knew, she was glad that it was over. She could be free of that +breathless pity, that impatience which had bordered on disgust and had +hurt her so-- + +She jumped up and went back to the library. + +Her father’s chair was drawn up beside the table, so that the light +from the lamp might fall across his open book. He had been reading +Emerson. Not Nietzsche, at the end. He had said, with one of his +smiles, that as he drew nearer to the devil he sought a better +acquaintance with God. + +Lilah wondered whether he had found God; whether, after that frantic +struggle not to die, he had come upon green hills and clouds white as +snow. She smiled at the thought of him, reading “Essays in Pessimism” +and neglecting his harp, or his pitch fork. Perhaps he had sought +acquaintance with God too late, as she herself was sure to. + +She sat down in the old chair and contemplated her slippers, her +ankles, her legs. Pretty enough legs. She might try the stage. It was +an amusing thought, and while it lasted, she saw herself, very much +blonder, wearing one of those soubrette costumes with a bouffant skirt +and a “plate” hat tied under her chin.... + +The idea trailed off. + + * * * * * + +When the telephone rang, she hesitated. It might be Aunt Jo--one of the +relatives, who had made this pilgrimage to New York with the gusto of +the confirmed funeral enthusiast. Or it might be David, who had made +her grief an excuse for offering his shoulder again. + +On the chance that it might be Robert Peabody, she answered. + +His voice, with that peculiar hesitation, said: “Miss Norris?” + +He wanted to see her. He had only just heard. Might he come? Of course! +To-night.... She was alone and unhappy, depressed. He could imagine.... + +“Eight o’clock, then.” + +She put the instrument down and ran into her bedroom, her spirits +flying again, like a whir of swift birds across a sunset sky. The +window was open, and, bare-armed, she leaned on the sill, watching +the tide in the street, people hurrying home, with bundles, with +newspapers, with twisted cornucopias full of flowers. The sky was +slate blue and the street a deep cañon full of purple shadows. All +the ugliness was erased; the cornices had a sort of beauty. A tall +apartment house over on the Avenue rose like a tower, a shaft of white +stone set with lights and crowned with wisps of steam, purple-blue +plumes in a giant’s cap. The murmur of the city rose, confused, a vast +grumble. She thought again of her father, lying out there beneath +a heap of flowers, and of herself, here, alive, with everything +unfolding.... + +He had always said that he had given his life to her. What he had +really given her was a dubious inheritance. She had all of his +impatience, his detestation of the crude or the banal. + +He had taken her with him on his annual vacations in Europe, meager +excursions to Switzerland and Italy. Lilah summered in innumerable, +obscure _pensions_. She wore crêpe waists that “did up” without ironing +and comfortable German-Swiss shoes with hob-nails, and tramped through +the Alpine valleys carrying a stick and a knapsack. Her quick eyes saw +everything, took things in, assorted, rejected, accepted. She spoke +French and Italian with a pert accent, and while her father sought out +and worried his intellectual bones she absorbed the European Blue Book. + +Beyond the redolent _pensions_ with their grottoed gardens and dingy +dining-rooms, there were the Grands Hôtels d’Europe, emblazoned +_concièrges_ and _parcs_ equipped with statuary and pavilions. And +beyond the hotels, a sacred circle of _chateâux_ and _villine_ +sheltering the lives of people whose very names stirred in her a +melancholy envy. She had never thought herself socially inferior; +she had the peculiar pride of the pedagogical aristocracy; she was, +moreover, American in her assumption of equality. But she could not +be patient, she could not accept what she knew to be a surrender to +mediocrity. + +In the meantime, several men fell in love with her--a Swedish pianist +with a bang and long finger-nails, an Italian cavalry officer and an +English engineer who wanted her to go with him to South Africa. She +knew, before she was twenty, the depth and the danger of passion. A man +had groveled at her feet, begging for something she could not feel. She +had known disgust and terror; afterwards, an exultation. She seemed to +have a certain persuasion. Realizing it, she cultivated her charm, what +men called her “mystery.” Part artifice, part instinct, this charm of +hers was deepened, made permanent, during those summers in Europe. She +was feminine and adroit. She knew that, given the right soil, she might +cultivate a very rare garden indeed. + + * * * * * + +Now this.... + +She closed the window and began to dress. Black again, she supposed. +Robert Peabody was conventional enough to question grief in orchid +chiffon; he would expect pallor--and pearls. Her own string was +imitation and she threw it down again. The telephone was ringing ... +David.... She crinkled her nose at herself in the mirror. Let him ring! +He was one of those dumb, worshipful creatures made more ardent by +rebuffs. He would ring to-morrow, and the next day, and the next, until +she answered. Nothing must interfere with her seeing Robert Peabody +alone. + +The bell stopped with a querulous note of surrender, and she went about +the library, straightening the chairs, pushing the ugliest ornaments +out of sight. She moved quickly, conscious of an unpleasant sensation +of fear. Her father seemed to be there, watching her, mournful and +beseeching, with those eyes of a dog or a wounded deer. She felt that +she had done something unfair; that she might, she might have held him +on this side a little longer--if she had resisted whatever it was that +was pulling him down and away! How horrible! Death should never come +near the living. It was unkind. Even to know-- + +She had put a silk scarf over her shoulders. The fringed ends touched +the floor; with one hand she held the heavy folds across her hips so +that the grace of her figure was visible. + +When the door bell rang--it was one of the push-button variety--she +waited a moment before answering, an artistic interval intended to stir +a doubt in Peabody’s mind and then to reassure him so that he would +mount the four flights of carpeted stairs with a sense of victory, of +security. + +While he climbed, she leaned over the banister. She could see his blond +head with the neat parting, his black and white muffler, a gloved hand +on the railing.... The ghost in the room behind her drifted out of the +window, back to the pyramid of flowers. + +She thought: “He has never been here before. He’ll hate the room.” + +But Robert Peabody seemed only to see her. His light eyes, not quick +like her own, but steady and almost expressionless, stared at her as he +took her hand: “I was so sorry to hear--so awfully sorry for you.” + +Lilah’s lips trembled. She led him back to the library and took from +him the heavy overcoat, the silk muffler, his hat and gloves. The feel +of them pleased her; they were so exactly right in texture. + +“I’ve been at the Point,” he said, taking her father’s chair. “I never +see a paper there. Gillow told me when I got back this morning.” He +hesitated. “I liked your father.” + +“Every one did,” Lilah said. + +“I know. I dare say he was better than most of us.” + +“He was.” + +“See here. I wish you wouldn’t cry! When people die, it’s a confounded +shame to talk about their good qualities. I’m a fool. I didn’t mean to +do what every one else does. I meant to cheer you up a bit.... Are you +alone?” + +Lilah wiped her eyes. “Yes. I sent the relatives away. They enjoyed it +too much.” + +He laughed. “Sensible of you! What can I talk to you about? Dogs? +People? Gardens?” + +“Yourself,” Lilah answered. “I’m curious about you.” + +This was obvious, but he was not the sort to be alarmed. + +“Your father must have told you,” he said. And to her surprise he +flushed. “I was his worst pupil. I flunked everything. I’m terribly +stupid.” + +“I don’t believe that.” + +“But I am. I wouldn’t be anywhere to-day if it weren’t for my +grandfather. He created the family, and he still runs it. Funny +thing--he had all the creative instinct. He saw the possibilities in +lumber sixty years ago. He saw, and, he dared. Magnificent old chap! He +outlived my father. I dare say he’ll outlive me.” + +“Hardly.” + +“Eighty-four. Thin as a leaf and hard as steel! I’m third generation. +And drinkin’.” + +“Why?” + +“What else is there to do? My grandfather had all the fun. He broke +the ground and planted the seed. Now the trees are up--if I can put +it that way--and there’s nothing for me to do but sit in the shade.... +Sometimes I envy him.” + +Lilah glanced down at her slippers. “You shouldn’t. He gives you +everything.” + +“And laughs at me! Because I’m soft. And thick-pated. He couldn’t hate +me any more than I hate myself. My God, Miss Norris, to be as rich as I +am and to look like an English governess.... Now, don’t I? Honest? You +ought to see my knees--they’re as pink as a baby’s! Look at my hands! +And this hair--it parts like that, neat, in the middle! Great God!” He +stared at her. “So I’m drinkin’.” + +“You don’t blame your grandfather for your knees, do you?” + +“Of course I do.” He slid forward and offered his cigarette case. +“Smoke?” + +Lilah thought quickly: “Do I, or don’t I?” + +She decided: “Yes.” + +And leaning to the match he lighted, she puffed delicately, with quick +little intakes of breath. The smoke came through her nostrils. She +tipped her head back and let Peabody see the firm line of her throat, +her chin, round and feminine. + +“I made you laugh, didn’t I? I wanted to.” His expression changed, +and she saw again that bland, sympathetic look, an intensification, +as if he were trying to focus on his emotion. He had no complexities +of feeling; he seemed to grope for the most simple reaction. It was, +Lilah thought, like one of those “slowed-up” pictures in the movies. +You saw his mood change as you watched him. She could anticipate +the conclusion before he was aware of it himself. Was he going to +bore her too much? Her mind was not always accurate but it was quick +as lightning. She saw--pounced--judged. She lay back in her chair +watching this man whose path had crossed hers only twice, once in +Europe, and again at a dinner given in honor of her father. He was +the only rich man she knew. The satellites that had revolved about +her in her _pension_ days had been on the lookout for the traditional +American heiress; she had no _dot_, and therefore no claim to their +serious attention. She knew this. And her attitude toward men had been +unconsciously established; she believed that she could not advance +without a compromise. She took it for granted that she would have to +forego love. She was too ironical to consider the possibility of a +lovable Robert Peabody. + +“See here,” he said. The match burned out between his fingers and he +tossed it into the grate. “I have a suggestion.... You ought not to +stay here alone. Suppose you let me take you back to the Point? My +grandfather’s there. He’d love you. And there’s my Aunt Whiteside, +who’s a sort of housekeeper. It would do you good. What do you say?” + +Lilah shook her head. “No.” + +“Why not?” + +She stood up, flicking the ashes into the hearth, with a gesture she +had perhaps copied from some one--it was not insolent, but it was very +“Russian.” She was picturesque, standing there, the lamplight on the +curious silver-gold of her hair, which she wore straight back from +her forehead. She had about her that peculiar and elusive element of +elegance which is usually the patina, unmistakable, of wealth. There +was no trace of her rather shoddy experience in either her carriage or +her attitude. She was not arrogant. She was assured. And this was her +most valuable asset. + +She shook her head again. “I can’t. I’m penniless. I’ve got to do +something.” + +Robert Peabody stared at his hands as if they offended him. “I’m sorry. +Terribly sorry. That’s rotten luck.” + +The rich can be magnificently casual about money. It was rotten luck! +But to people like the Peabodys, financial calamity is too remote to be +classed among the realities of life. + +Lilah, glancing down at the neat part in Robert Peabody’s hair, knew +that she had made a misstep. + +“It’s all right,” she said lightly. “I’ll manage.” + +“Of course you will! Only I’d hoped that you’d come. It would be jolly +for my grandfather. And for me.” + +It would have been jolly for her, if she could have afforded it. +How could she tell Robert Peabody that she had only the one dress, +and nothing for evening? If she had been a personality, some one +established, a woman of importance, it would not have mattered. A +great woman needs only her wits and her name. But Lilah was nobody. +Twenty-seven years old, and nobody. She felt that her potentiality +had been walled in. Her father had had a streak of something common +in his nature; he had preferred mediocre people. He was always giving +money to blatant, down-at-the-heel sycophants whom he suspected of +talent or spiritual loveliness. He lent a sympathetic ear to tales +of degradation. There was something coarse in him--a streak aslant +the pure crystal of his intellect. His friends had called him a +humanitarian; to Lilah, his passion for derelicts meant a lack of +fastidiousness. She wanted him to be an epicurean; he had ended by +being a pathetic Nietzschan bleating for God.... + +Oh, to get away ... to forget, in the freshness of the country in May, +the stale odor of crêpe and wilted carnations.... + +“You ought to see the Point, Miss Norris. Some day, you must. I was +brought up there. I’m pretty much of a country chap. I’d like to show +you the kennels. D’you like spaniels?” + +“Rather.” + +“I’ve got a new litter. Four of the prettiest little chaps. Smooth as +silk with perfectly gorgeous ears.” + +He went on, talking about spaniels, leaning back in her father’s chair. + +She smiled. But her mind was busy making pictures of the Point; she +was walking down a garden path paved with brick between rose hedges. +The sun was warm on her back; she could feel it through the lace of +her gown, and on her neck, where her leghorn hat turned up and you saw +her hair twisted so smoothly, honey-colored. She was not with Robert +but with his grandfather. There was a look between them of perfect +understanding, something warm, mutual, delicious. And the sky was like +a Canaletto, flecked with “mackerel,” gentian and crystal. She saw the +chimneys of a house, and a sort of terrace where a cow grazed under +some trees.... + +“The little chaps hadn’t opened their eyes.” + +“No?” she said. She came back out of the dream with a shiver of +pleasure. Then one by one the details of the room assailed her. This +was hers. + +She twisted her shoulders and smiled. “Aren’t you hungry? I’ll make a +rarebit.” + +Robert Peabody flushed again. “Will you?” + +She led the way to the kitchen, and, letting the silk scarf fall +into Robert’s hands, she put on an apron. She was very expert and +swift, lighting the gas stove, opening and shutting the ice-box, +grating cheese, toasting crackers, stirring and measuring. She put +Robert in a corner, where he sat with her scarf between his hands, +caressing the stuff, not as some men would have caressed it, with +luxury, but with a sort of unconscious pleasure, as one strokes the +silky ears of a dog. All the while he watched her. She had decided +not to be ashamed of the way she lived; there was little or no use in +pretending luxury. A medley of sounds rose from the court outside, +and she closed the window. They were more alone in the silence. Their +intimacy and their strangeness demanded words, but he said nothing, +only watched, with emotions making their slow and obvious passage +across his eyes. He found her fascinating and she puzzled him. She +was practical, and pretty, a lady; you couldn’t be quite sure, these +days; he might have a shot at a flirtation; he pitied her; he was a +little afraid of her--but fascinating, by George. Damned attractive! +Something foreign about her.... And then the idea of love crossed his +mind. While she was stirring the rarebit, she watched the beginning of +that idea. His eyes were fixed on her hands and arms, from which the +black sleeves fell back. His eyes clouded with the poignant onslaught +of his conception--to love her, to be loved by her. Tremendous. A +responsibility. His mouth betrayed, by a droop at the corners, his +humility and discouragement. And his hands, touching the silk fringes, +began suddenly to caress them, gently. + +When she leaned across the table to pour the rarebit, he bent quickly +and kissed her arm. + +Lilah said: “Oh.” + +“Forgive me, there’s a dear! I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t.” + +“And you pretend to be stupid?” + +“But I am. That’s just it.” + +She shrugged. Her reaction was immediate and would have startled him +had he known how swift and inexorable her judgments were. She had +decided to make him suffer, and to land him full and fair in her net. +This one, and no other! You will see that she was romantic; only a +very sentimental woman enjoys making a man suffer. As a gauge of love +the process is primitive, even savage. It meant simply that in that +moment, so light, so brief, when he had put his lips to her arm, he had +attracted her. + +“It’s a good rarebit,” he said. “And it seems to me you’re awfully cozy +here. Nice little flat. Everything comfortable.” + +“But I haven’t any money.” + +“Not literally?” + +“Quite. When the nurses and doctors are paid, I shan’t have anything.” + +She stifled a sudden depression. “I’ll do something. I can make hats!” + +He looked up from the rarebit. “I bet you can! I’ll tell Aunt Whiteside +and the James girls. I know mobs of women....” + +He branched off into the eccentricities of his Aunt Whiteside’s +hats. “Awful little bonnets with trees and crystal dew-dabs and +strings--everything shakes and shivers--all of her hats have the palsy. +But she pays like thunder for ’em. And the bills go to my grandfather. +He always says: ‘The price of virtue’ when he writes the check. She’s +sort of a mother superior in sequins. One day my grandfather said: +‘Robert, have you ever noticed Grace Whiteside’s legs?’ I’d never +thought of such a thing! But the next day I looked, and by George, they +were magnificent! Something terrible about it.... An old lady with +legs....” + +“Go on,” Lilah said. + +But Robert shook his head. “I’m shockin’ you.” + +“No. I’ve known Italian men. They all talk like that, only, in Italian, +it sounds like d’Annunzio: _Le gambe belle di una vecchia donna_....” + +They laughed. + +He had forgotten about her poverty again. + +Before he left, standing in the darkened hallway with his muffler on +and eyes sympathetic again, he said: “I’m going to ask Grace Fuller to +come around and see you. She’s looking for a room-mate. Splendid girl. +I’m rather sweet on her. You’d like her.” + +“Grace Fuller?” + +“She’s a nurse. Took care of me when I had my appendix. And she always +sees Aunt Whiteside through the gall-stones.” + +He offered his hand. + +Lilah felt that, behind her, the ghost had drifted in again. “I’d be +very glad,” she said faintly. + +“Now you cheer up.” His voice deepened a note. He was genuinely sorry +for her. “Good night.” + +Lilah leaned against the closed door.... Tired.... Tired.... Grace +Fuller.... Sweet on her.... What a damned fool of a man! What a bore! +Stupid! Stupid! To have had him here at all! To have tried.... + +She ran to the window and leaned out. A motor moved away with a silvery +clink of chains. It had been raining.... He was gone.... The street +lights were like balloons on sticks and an odor of wet dust rose, +pungent, acrid. + +For a long time she leaned there, with dry eyes, her breath shallow. +The day flowed back over her spirit and she saw herself, little, +heartless, unsuccessful. She had better make up her mind to do with +what she had. To accustom herself to such ugliness as this. + + + + +II + + +She had hoped for a little life-insurance; her father’s wail had been, +whenever she wanted a new hat: “I can’t, my dear. I’ve got to pay the +life-insurance--twenty dollars.” She had never questioned him; it had +seemed unkind, but she knew that there was some sort of a policy. She +went through his papers, vaguely excited. There were a few letters from +some one who signed herself “Darling,” written in a spidery hand on +blue paper. Lilah threw the package into the waste basket, unread.... +His knife. His precious letter of recommendation from Hadley.... A +note, long overdue, forgotten, outlawed, hardly decipherable.... A long +envelope containing snap-shots of his dog, Nellie, the old setter. +Lilah felt a penetrating pity--her father, laughing, in a corduroy +coat, with Nellie tugging at a leash. Her father, on a jig-saw veranda, +with his pipe, and Nellie scratching fleas behind him.... Nellie.... +Nellie.... + +The policy was not there. She emptied the drawers of an accumulation of +cherished trash, all faded, incomprehensible. + +She was interrupted by a caller, a thin, waspish man who tried to +be amiable, as if he expected, before the interview was over, to be +thoroughly disagreeable. + +“Miss Norris? I represent Bilton and Chiswick, agents for this +apartment. We have heard of your misfortune. We would like to know +whether you intend to occupy the premises now that you are--alone--or +whether you prefer to sub-lease.” + +Lilah said impatiently: “I’ll let you know.” + +He consulted a black book, very much thumbed. “Your lease expires in +twenty days. Shall I prepare a new lease for the coming year? The rent, +in all these apartments, has been raised. We are asking sixty-five a +month for three rooms and bath.” + +“How on earth does he know,” Lilah wondered, “that I’m broke?” + +To shock him, she lighted a cigarette. + +He jumped up. “We expect an answer in the morning. There’s a great +demand for these apartments.” + +“Is there?” + +Lilah went with him to the door and shut him out with a bang. These +agents had a mysterious money instinct--they could smell out poverty. +Beasts! + +She went back to the library, suddenly conscious of the inestimable +blessing of a roof. She had sixty dollars. The doctor could be put +off. Doctors never expected to be paid at once.... The nurse, no. +Then, where would she be? Why hadn’t her father taught her to do +something.... She had forgotten the grocer’s bill, the milk, ice, gas, +newspaper.... + +She would have to borrow. From whom? Not Aunt Jo. Nor her father’s +cronies, the book clerks. Nor from any of the professors and +assistants. Every one she knew was poor, struggling, limited. + +She signed a new lease. The waspish man was suspicious. He made a +sucking sound with his tongue and snatched his fountain-pen back before +Lilah had added the line and the two dots which usually ornamented her +large, flourishing signature. She had no idea how she was going to +thwart his obvious intention; he meant to evict her, bag and baggage, +at the first opportunity. When he had gone, sucking his teeth all the +way down stairs, Lilah telephoned David Brenner. He, at least, would +know that coupons don’t grow in geranium pots. + +He came, smiling in that way he had of cherishing a secret. + +“David, I’m frightened.” + +“Broke?” + +She emptied her purse on the table. “Forty-one, seventy-seven.” + +He shook his head. “I’m not sorry for you, Lilah. You’re looking into a +mirror at what you think is life. And the mirror is a trick mirror--it +enlarges, distorts everything. You see your poverty--colossal! You +see your limitations--gigantic! You see your fear--enormous! And look +here--look! The Truth! You’re a pretty little humbug. You can earn your +living, only you’re afraid to.” + +“David, I thought you loved me.” + +“I do.” + +The young Jew had eyes that went around her. “I do. Only--between the +sublime and the ridiculous there is the breadth of a hair.” + +“Am I ridiculous?” + +“You are a little humbug,” he said stubbornly. + +“What can I do? I won’t cook. I won’t take care of babies. I won’t be a +chorus girl.” + +“You’re too old.” + +“Old?” + +“Certainly. What else can you do?” + +“I can make hats.” + +Suddenly she raised her voice. “I hate poverty! It’s positively +immoral.” + +“What a pretty speech! Wait until you know real poverty, as I have +known it! Did I ever tell you--I escaped from Russia when I was +sixteen? I stowed away from Vladivostok to San Francisco and lived +like a rat for three years. Only then my name wasn’t Brenner--it was +a mouthful! I don’t hate poverty. I hate the system which permits +poverty....” + +Lilah interrupted. “I shan’t fail! I can get four with one and +one-half. I’m quick. But I don’t like having to be quick. I prefer to +wear chiffon and to walk in a garden....” + +His eyes softened “Poor Lilah.” + +“What shall I do?” + +“Work.” + +“_You_ don’t,” she said sharply. + +But he would not part with his secret. Spreading out his hands, +he shrugged, and let her believe anything. Suspected of having +dodged the draft, David Brenner kept strange company, maintained an +enigmatic silence and, like all morose and discontented intellectuals, +appeared to be more important than he was. He wore a cloak of vague +disapproval. It was more an atmosphere than a militant conviction. +He was not a fighter. There was something adolescent in his moody +distraction, his hauteur, his indifference. + +“Lilah, I am an alley cat, pawing over garbage. I have come upon +a glittering little fish, a fresh sardine--and that’s Lilah! I +shall never be the same cat again.... I shall always be looking for +sardines.... Will you lunch with me?” + +She would. + +They went to a Greenwich Village restaurant. In certain moods, Lilah +enjoyed such places. She liked to sit aloof and peep between her +fingers at these pathological bohemians. She smoked, veiled her eyes, +and let David Brenner hold her hand. The table was a patch-work of +initials and dates, egoistic trademarks. Lilah thought of Dante’s Tomb +and the names scratched on the face of the Sphinx--little names, here +and there, seen, gone ... nothing.... + +David Brenner was no better than Robert Peabody. Men only wanted to +kiss her. + + * * * * * + +She left him and walked uptown, seeking the sacred pavements of upper +Fifth Avenue with a deep breath of relief. Here, she could be herself. +She drifted from one shop-window to another, absorbed, with something +in her expression of the devotee. She might have been a woman of +elegance, whereas she happened to be a little nobody with forty-one +dollars and seventy-seven cents in the world. + +Characteristically, she postponed thinking about the future. She +enjoyed the great symphony of the streets. The crowds gave her a +feeling of security. + +She studied the hats. One, in particular, delighted her. It was +_chinoiserie_, a poem in colored silks with a funny, pointed crown--no +one but Lilah could wear such a hat. + +She went on; came back to stare.... Delightful.... Her father had not +wanted her to wear mourning. And this little hat would give her some +sort of glow.... + +She went into the shop. + +It was a gray, padded, mirrored place. And a woman in a black dress, +too short, with long, square sleeves, came forward. + +“The little hat in the window,” Lilah said in her best manner. “The +Chinese one.” She made a gesture. + +“Ah, yes.” + +The hat was produced, twirled, tipped, turned upside down. + +“Let me see.” + +“Certainly.” + +Lilah sat down before a mirror and removed the black hat and veil. She +ran her fingers through her hair and gave a downward and upward thrust +of her head to receive this crown of bright, twisted silks. + +“Lanvin,” the saleswoman remarked. + +“Really?” + +“A copy.” + +“I thought so.” + +“But, Madam, it is exact. In everything. The silk; the ornament--you +won’t see another.” + +Lilah studied her profile. She was indeed a quaint and delightful +little person.... + +“Do you like it?” + +“Very becoming, Madam.” + +Lilah felt a rush of excitement and pleasure. + +“How much is it?” + +“Thirty-five, Madam.” + +“That seems--” + +She broke off. It was really not expensive. + +“You look very well indeed, Madam. You wear that type of hat +wonderfully. So few can!” + +“I’ll take it.” + +The woman’s manner changed. “May I show you others? We have a few +models--it is rather early.... One very beautiful straw, from Molineux. +This one ... a little more to one side.... You wear hats so well.” + +Lilah wanted to say: “I make them, too.” + +Instead, she wrinkled up her nose and became very contemptuous. “I +don’t like it.” + +“No?” + +She went out of the shop wearing the little silk turban, and carrying +the black hat in a striped box inscribed: _La Mode Chez Annette_. + + * * * * * + +Beneath a slate-blue sky the light stone palaces of trade were +curiously luminous. The Avenue itself, in shadow, was a revolving chain +of motors; the great procession of glittering vehicles moved forward, +stopped, was pierced by cross-town traffic, moved forward again. The +Towers built about the Plaza rose into sunlight and were gilded at +the tip. Lilah found the city very suave, mellow--there was none of +the brazen clamor of Chicago, the sullen roar of London.... A woman +approaching with a dog on a leash and wearing a long black cape and a +plush tricorn, was like a figure by Longhi.... + +Lilah was conscious of a keen esthetic pleasure. The hat had restored +her self-confidence, the certainty of success. + +She was always alive to this pageant; its deeper meanings, its trend, +escaped her. But she saw every face that passed--she could label them, +put them in their niche. Old people touched her heart, if they were +brave and jaunty; she could be infinitely sorry for some suffering +and haughty face glimpsed in passing. The audacious, bow-legged, and +blatant girl of the people, aping fashion, irritated her; vulgarity +excluded the picturesque; there was nothing wistful about gum and +lop-sided French heels. Lilah was not pitiless, but her pity was +aroused by things in themselves not tragic--she was sorry only for +the strong who are defeated by time or disease. The weak and helpless +annoyed her because they made demands on her sympathy. She preferred to +give, unsolicited. + + * * * * * + +She turned aside at Fifty-seventh Street, eager to wear the hat into +all the high-roads of fashion. + +Then, superior to fatigue, borne along on the crest of that little +personal success, she walked downtown again, with her quick, short +steps and the imperious carriage of her head, threading the impersonal +crowds, stimulated, eager, warming herself against that pressure of +life. + + * * * * * + +She climbed the four flights of carpeted stairs slowly. All the zest +was gone. If her father were only there--some one-- + +A woman, rather tall, with a curious, ugly face and a bang of lightish +hair under a queer hat, was leaning against the wall in the half-shadow +at the top of the stairs. + +“Miss Norris? I’m Miss Fuller. I rang and you didn’t answer. But I came +up anyway. Robert Peabody sent me.” + +Lilah said, in a voice she kept for strangers: “I’m so glad. Won’t you +come in?” + +Miss Fuller followed and looked carefully at everything before she sat +down. + +“This isn’t my taste,” Lilah said instantly. + +“It wouldn’t be. Robert raved about it and about you. He liked both the +room and yourself. He has no discrimination, but he is a darling.” + +“What, exactly, do you mean by that?” + +“I mean that frills are wasted on him. He doesn’t see them. From what +he told me, I did not expect--you.” + +Lilah laughed. Her good humor returned. She glanced at herself in the +mirror.... Reassuring, that hat.... + +“What did he tell you?” + +“Oh.... Pretty.... Sweet.... You’re not sweet. I hate the word. Why do +men use it? Men are so stupid. When they think they’re in love with you +they call you ‘sweet’ and they always muss up your hair. I hate being +made love to. They never do it right. They either choke you or they +scratch you. It makes me irritable, and they never try it again.” + +“Does Robert scratch you?” Lilah asked sweetly. + +“No. He chokes.” + +“He would,” Lilah said. “Do you let him?” + +“I compromise. I insist on vacations. Then we are platonic and he is +pathetic. He is a child. He cries for a lollypop. So I say: ‘Go ahead. +Kiss me.’ And he does. And, afterwards, I use liniment to limber up my +neck.” + +“You look like a Vanderbilt,” Lilah remarked. “All that wooly hair. And +that long neck. And those eyebrows.” + +“I’m Middle West. My grandfather was a Carlsen, a farmer. But my +mother took a trip to Chicago before I was born and saw some wealth +and fashion and marked me. I love luxury. I can achieve it with cheese +cloth, safety pins and a little rouge. But now I’m bored. I want a +French maid.” + +“Why don’t you marry Robert?” + +“I’m going to. If you don’t.” + +“I?” + +“He has called you sweet.” Miss Fuller lighted a cigarette. She did +it in a characteristic way, a methodical, unhurried movement of her +cool, thin hands. “I won’t fight. I can’t. You have all the weapons. +And I have none. I’d be kind to him and you’d ruin his life. But you +would keep him dancing and I would see to it that he sat by the fire. I +understand him. You never will.” She tossed the match away. “And he’ll +take you.” + +“Nonsense.” Lilah was pleased. She thought: “I’ll take _him_, rather. +She’d better watch out.” + +Aloud, she said: “Robert says you’re a nurse.” + +“I met him six years ago, when I was the starchiest graduate you’ve +ever seen--pink and white, with a cap pinned on a blonde pompadour. It +used to be fashionable to fall in love with your nurse, and I had a +bed-side technique. He asked me to marry him, but I wouldn’t, because +that was always part of an appendix convalescence. Afterwards, he +forgot. Of course! But later they sent me to the Point to nurse his +Aunt Whiteside--” + +“I know! The gallstones!” + +“He told you?” + +Miss Fuller quenched her cigarette with the same, deliberate, unhurried +gesture. She had a strange smile, sensitive, in contrast to the clipped +irony of her conversational style. Lilah saw that this woman had +been grievously hurt, shockingly buffeted. There was something about +her calm which suggested the heroic self-control of the victim of a +hurricane or an earthquake. She was afraid, but she was hanging on. + +“So I went. Starch, blonde bang, wrist-watch. Very cool.... That +house.... The grandfather’s house. About Eighteen-Seventy. Carpets. +Lots of silver. Walnut and ebony. Gongs for dinner. Velvet. You know +the sort of thing.... I don’t like the grandfather.” + +“Why?” + +“He doesn’t like me. He likes pert women, who hiss like cats and +scratch and then purr on his knee. My starch irritated him. But Robert +liked it.” + +“Did he kiss you, then?” + +“No. Not for years.” + +Lilah said gently: “You love him.” + +“Yes. I do.” + +“Well--” + +“Something I see, that you get to see when you know him! A gentleness. +He is kind to people and doesn’t make any fuss. There’s no mystery +about him. I’m sick of mysteries.... Doctors.... You don’t know what +those hospitals are! They make a cynic or a huntress out of you, unless +you happen to be a Florence Nightingale. I’m not. I don’t believe in +anything.” + +She broke off and Lilah said: “Tell me about yourself. More! Aren’t you +happy?” + +“Sometimes. When I’m alone. And I’m never alone.” + +Lilah laughed. “Robert said you might live with me.” + +“I _could_ live with you! You’re not the sort of woman who talks, or +fusses. You make me think of a feminine cat, licked, sitting on a +cushion. Indifferent and mysterious, but cozy.” + +Lilah enjoyed this admiration; she knew that she possessed in an +unusual degree the qualities which Grace Fuller lacked; she could be +seductive because she had no particular sense of humor. Grace Fuller +was the sort of woman who keeps her emotions under lock and key because +she knows that she is ridiculous, that all emotion is ridiculous. She +waited for some one to smash in her defenses and rescue her hidden +self. In the meantime, she leaned on the door, fearful. But Lilah was a +naked heart behind a grill. + +With a sudden impulse, Lilah said: “Come, then! There are two +bedrooms.... I pay sixty-five a month.... I’ve got to do something ... +make hats ... dance.... We’ll manage.” + +They lighted cigarettes and sat, talking, watching each other, until +midnight. + + * * * * * + +Grace Fuller moved in--her two trunks and a neat bag were put in the +room which had been Mr. Norris’. At once, an array of toilet articles +appeared on the bureau--cosmetics and perfumes of very good make in +crystal bottles, small, opaque boxes of rouge and lip sticks in metal +cases. Miss Fuller had a passion for cosmetics, but she did not look +like a woman who painted; her skin was her only claim to seduction, and +the faint odor of perfume was an indication of her restraint. She was +virginal, and, in her exaggerated loneliness, abnormal. She shut the +door of her room against Lilah, and only emerged, fully dressed and +curled, for formal conversation. + +She left the apartment early in the morning and returned, often, late +at night, dog-tired, but unflinching. + +Lilah made one attempt to get work to do. She had heard that one of +the fashionable men dressmakers wanted a designer. His shop, an entire +house in the East Fifties, was furnished in the exotic manner of +Poiret’s establishment in Paris. His mannequins inevitably graduated +to the stage, or to society. Diana, Kitty, Carmencita ... opulent, +tall girls with the hands and arms of goddesses.... Something about +this man’s manner had always attracted Lilah. He made the exploitation +of feminine vanity an enormously profitable business. She went to see +him, relying on the poetic little hat and her manner to carry her past +the guardians of his privacy to the inner sanctum, his office, a room +decorated by Chanler. + +She found the approach unexpectedly easy. He was seated behind a desk. +She was surprised, upset, by his youth and his concise greeting: + +“Won’t you sit down?” + +“Thank you.” + +“You are interested in a wardrobe? It is not the season. But there are +a few models....” + +“No. I am a designer. Hats. I want a position with you.” + +“There is no opening.” + +“I thought.... + +“Your experience?” + +“None. I have good taste....” + +“I see! That hat?” + +“Lanvin.” + +“Ah.” + +“But I am talented, myself.” + +“You know Paris?” + +“Very well.” + +“You are hard up?” + +With a flash of anger, Lilah said: “Yes. I am. I want a job.” + +“You shouldn’t have come to me. I am a busy man. Why didn’t you see +Mr. O’Connor or Mrs. Frazer, at the work-rooms?” He wrote something on +a card and tossed it across the desk. “There! If there’s room in the +shop, they’ll give you a chance.... First, you must learn to put hats +together. Later, perhaps, you can design them.” + +Lilah rose. She did not take the card. She felt his eyes, shrewd, +appraising, absolutely without illusion, slide over her--it was a +physical, a nauseating attachment. + +“Thank you,” she said. + +“Not at all.” He waved his hand. His expression changed. He dismissed +her. “Good morning.” + + * * * * * + +She postponed reality. There seemed to be no incentive, no immediate +need; she was strangely lulled. She had, for years, searched for +something vital, something with which to satisfy her restless longing +for perfection. She had failed. There was nothing ahead that she could +not, now, recognize as dull, inevitable, beyond her capacity for +patient endurance. + +She was afraid of death, but she believed that, once dead, she would be +thoroughly dead. As a child, she had had an overdose of religion; her +mother had fed her all the gloomy details of the orthodox legend; on +the other hand, she had been conscious that her father, secretly, knew +better. It was the old tragedy of credulity, Santa Claus and the cotton +beard. + +Her dreams were deeper, more hidden than is usual with women. She +wanted love but not what she called suburban love. She secretly desired +a man who would be indifferent to her contempt and beyond the reach of +her irony. She could imagine herself in love, but the co-protagonist +was always featureless; she invariably built her romance about her +own personality. She was forever clothing herself in the garments of +romance and falling in love with herself. + + * * * * * + +Robert Peabody reëntered her life a week after the relation with Grace +Fuller had been established. + +He came one evening when the two women were together, Lilah sewing +at some impractical square of brocade, Grace Fuller, her narrow feet +elevated, smoking a cigarette in an amber holder. She had watched a man +die that afternoon--an old man whose pet particular nurse and slave +she had been for six months. Yet there was no sign of relaxation, of +discouragement. Her pessimism was too deep, established, like some +physical disease--slowly, she was hardening in the mold fate had made +for her. + +Robert Peabody was embarrassed and jovial. Lilah found him amusing +because, for the first time, she saw that another woman really wanted +him. + +While he talked, as usual, about his dogs, Grace Fuller watched him. +Her scrutiny, deep, unswerving, made Lilah conscious that he was, in +a way, handsome. Always well-dressed, he had the deft outlines of a +man accustomed to luxury; and his bland good humor was the result of +an existence devoid of anxiety. His appendix had been the outstanding +complication, so far. Something of his grandfather’s looks had passed +to him; he had the high nose with flaring nostrils. But his eyes were +his mother’s and hers the rather sensitive and melancholy mouth. + +He liked these two women. They were outside his sphere. He “played +about” with the women who lived near Peabody’s Point, women he had +watched grow up from spoiled little girls into a casual maturity; he +had flirted with all of them, had seen them married and had settled +into the bantering familiarity of the cherished bachelor in a “young +married” community. + +Whatever he felt, inwardly, he was outwardly an inflexible optimist. +Lilah wondered whether he saw Grace Fuller’s eyes, whether, if he saw, +he could appreciate the extent, the danger, of that dedication. And she +remembered, with an unexpected excitement, how he had kissed her arm. + +She went on sewing, bending her head so that the light from the lamp +would fall on her hair. Her soft abstraction, her air of modesty and +domestic content, drew him away from Grace Fuller. He leaned forward +to finger the stuff she was making into a useless and ornamental bag, +and she explained that the brocade came from a shop in Florence where +the copying of ancient materials was a specialty. This was the robe +of Boticelli’s Primavera, a delicate scattering of small flowers on a +background of cream silk. + +Grace Fuller rose suddenly and went into her bedroom. + +“Don’t flirt with me,” Lilah said. “Miss Fuller won’t like it.” + +He flushed. “You’re quite mistaken.” + +“You told me you were ‘sweet’ on her.” + +“I am. But I can flirt with you all the same.” + +Already, they had the manner of conspirators. Robert lowered his voice +and said: “Will you dine with me? To-morrow? Say ‘yes.’ I’m going back +to the Point on Friday. We’ll take a hansom to the Park and eat there. +What do you say?” + +Lilah whispered: “Yes. I’ll be ready at five. Not later.” + +The door opened and Grace Fuller came in again. She caught the +quick lifting of Robert’s head, his smile, at once embarrassed and +triumphant. She knew him so well that her heart ached for this +duplicity; she could even pity him for having had to hurt her. But she +said nothing. + +When he had gone, she spoke from the doorway to Lilah, who was winding +rough, colored threads about cardboard spools. + +“I wonder if you know what love is? Oh, you can imagine it! You think +about it a lot! But do you know? The pain.... Exhausting.... Of trying +to pour yourself into a man’s consciousness.... And then being stupid. +Hurting him--pushing him off.... Pretending.... Because you’re ashamed +of wanting.... Killing what you want. Not wanting what you want until +you’ve lost it....” + +“That’s a bit excessive,” Lilah said. “You’re morbid, aren’t you? I +could make any man happy by learning to understand him. If he liked +mystery, I’d be mysterious. If he wanted a pal, I’d pal. To the limit.” + +“Could you be domestic?” + +“Certainly.” + +Miss Fuller laughed that short, dry and brittle laugh. “What we all +say! Pretend to be clay for the molding. Other women nag. We wouldn’t! +Other women suffer jealousy. We wouldn’t! Other women fail in the +little illusions and go about in curl-papers and a mask of cold cream, +without their mental corsets. We wouldn’t! But married.... Well, it’s +positively thrilling to observe the similitude of women.... Marriage is +a sort of antiphlogistine--it brings out all the lurking devils.” + +“How do you know?” + +“I’ve observed ... remember, I am a nurse. The shades up and the light +of day on the domestic drama....” + +Lilah said suddenly: “I may take your Robert away from you.” + +Miss Fuller seemed to consider. “I see what you mean. I’m jealous!” She +shook her head. “Robert isn’t the man for you. He isn’t a snob. And you +are. I mean, you care a great deal about things Robert never notices. +At the Point he goes about like a hired man in a pair of corduroy +trousers and an old green sweater. He’s lazy. And sometimes he says +stupid things....” + +“What?” Lilah asked sharply. + +She felt a sharp pang of irritability slip into her consciousness, +edged. Her eyes were lowered; her fingers flew around the cardboard +spools. + +“Oh, he’s full of platitudes. He collects stamps. He reads the wrong +books, and he wants children.” + +“Does he?” Lilah’s voice was cool. The inflection was iced. + +The thought crossed her mind that perhaps Grace Fuller had lived with +Robert. This was at once a revelation and a weapon. She glanced up. +With a look both appraising and sympathetic, she studied that worn, +disillusioned face, in which the charm of a blonde freshness had given +way to a shadow, a premonition of old age. Vaguely distinguished, +aloof, sharp and bitter, she had a tender mental surface. Lilah knew +that she herself could control Grace Fuller’s opinions; she was not +afraid of her tongue; the woman was quivering under the skin. + +“I see what you’re thinking,” Grace Fuller said. “It isn’t true. I’ve +loved, but not Robert--that way. You won’t believe me. He’s decent, as +men have forgotten how to be decent.... Lilah, let me have him!” + +She crossed the room suddenly and stood before Lilah with her hands +clenched at her sides, her face strained. “I love him!” she cried. + +Lilah tossed the silks upon the table. “Nonsense,” she said crisply. +“I don’t want your Robert! He’s a fearful bore. He’s flat. He moves +about on the face of the earth like a wet beetle. Grace, you’re biased. +You’re lop-sided. You’re hypnotized by his morality--or his money! +You’re making yourself ridiculous and Robert is flattered. He doesn’t +intend to marry you. It’s too comfortable to know that he can make you +suffer. Why not make him suffer? Men don’t appreciate martyrdom. You +look like an old woman, at thirty. Am I unkind? I don’t mean to be. I’m +awfully fond of you.... I tell you, I don’t want your Robert.... But I +can’t help it if he should happen to fall in love with me.... Men do +those things. They love the wrong woman.... If you didn’t care.... If +you could....” + +She broke off. + +“Let’s go to bed. I’m tired. He tires me. I tell you he bores me. Let’s +not talk about him.” + +Without a word, Grace Fuller went into her room and shut the door. + +In a few minutes she came out again. She had brushed her hair back from +her forehead, and had a startled, innocent look. She kept rubbing cold +cream into her face and neck with little upward, crawling motions of +her finger-tips. She wore a corduroy wrapper and felt slippers. Lilah +noticed that her feet were narrow and bony, like a priest’s. Her elbows +were sharp. Her shoulders were too narrow.... Lilah felt round and +cozy and soft. She felt warm; her flesh delighted her. She thought how +delicious she must look, sitting there with her feet in high-heeled +slippers tucked under her. She was sorry, in a comfortable sort of +way, for Grace Fuller. She wanted, at that moment, to help her, to give +her some of her own warmth and brilliance, to bring her into the circle +of her inevitable success.... She saw herself making it very delightful +for Grace Fuller at Peabody’s Point. “My dear Grace, Robert loves to +have you.... He is so fond of you. You must stay as long as you can!” +Perhaps giving her some decent clothes.... She would be quite smart in +simple things, with eccentric hats and bizarre ornaments.... + +Grace Fuller rubbed the cream into her finger-nails with the absorption +she put into doing all unimportant things, as if performing a rite. As +Lilah had never seen her out of the formality of curled hair and rouge, +she felt a vague embarrassment. + +“I wanted to say,” Grace Fuller remarked presently, “that we mustn’t +have a misunderstanding. You’re more important to me than Robert.” + +“I tell you, I don’t want him,” Lilah repeated. + + * * * * * + +She dressed carefully for her meeting with Robert. The Chinese hat had +lost some of its novelty, but she had added a French veil.... She was +almost, literally, penniless. + +At five o’clock Robert Peabody arrived. He was eager, flushed. + +A shiny hansom-cab, deliciously out of balance, precarious, waited at +the curb. A group of curious small boys gaped at this contrivance, and, +as Lilah and Robert crossed the sidewalk, a window was thrown up and +a burst of laughter floated down to them. Lilah was acutely conscious; +Robert unaware. He had the fine indifference of the wealthy to other +people’s little humiliations. She had a momentary feeling of defeat. He +was infinitely removed. He intended, probably, to treat her as he had +treated Grace Fuller.... + +Then, abruptly, her mood changed. + +The cab turned uptown; the rhythmic clop of hoofs, the remote and +cushioned cabin, like a sedan on wheels, her own youth.... Suddenly +everything was desirable, delightful. This was what she wanted, +deserved.... + +She began to sparkle. She was so intimate, so gay, that Robert +Peabody’s rather stolid expression changed to one of amazed delight in +her. He turned around; their eyes met. She noticed that his eyes were +not blue, but hazel, very clear and wide open. She pressed her shoulder +against him, and he became aware of a delicate odor of sandalwood. +They laughed a good deal. Because she thought that he would not be +interested in her European experiences, she talked about the rare +summers she had spent in American resorts. She spoke of her “good +tennis arm” and how an Indian had taught her to handle a paddle. As a +matter of fact, she was an indifferent sport. But she could imagine +herself doing all these things. She believed she had done them. + +Robert Peabody discovered a new eloquence. He had an admirable passion +for the out-of-doors. It kept him, he said, from drinkin’. In New York, +he gave way in that point. Prohibition was a good thing--he’d be the +last person to interfere with such a colossal experiment. But any one +who could afford to drink, drank. He did. He supposed he wasn’t a +good American. He never had been, in a literal sense. Politics didn’t +exactly get under his skin; the country muddled through without him. +He had his property, his dogs, his friendships, his conviction of an +inalienable right to these possessions. If there should be social +changes, upheavals, revolutions, he would accept whatever came. He +believed in going with the times, never bucking the trend, whatever it +was. + +The war hadn’t interfered with this facile philosophy; he had accepted +the fact that the world was fighting mad, stark crazy, gibbering. A +phase. It had happened before; it would happen again. He couldn’t stop +it by stating a preference for open fields and dogs. So, he had gone +to the first officers’ camp, and had agreed cheerfully to whatever +“authority” said. A knack for details, hitherto undiscovered, had +landed him in the ordnance and he had worn silver chevrons in cheerful +glory at Rochester, New York. Captain Peabody! + +“Now it’s over, I am back where I want to be. The world hasn’t changed +much. I don’t understand all this talk about a new consciousness. Men +won’t change, either. We had our chance when Wilson went to Paris. But +the recoil didn’t surprise me. We aren’t ready for practical idealism. +You and I--people who see what might be--aren’t a drop in the bucket of +public feeling. We’re swamped by millions of frightened ignoramuses. +They’ll swing back to the doddering conservatives, bleating for +normalcy. They’ll get it! We’re in for another Dark Age.” + +“Don’t you care?” + +“No. I never believed in the pet illusions we fought for, anyway. +Civilization has always tickled my sense of humor. There are certain +unchangeable, satisfactory things--well, dogs! And days when you +can smell the sea, sweet, like flowers, blowing in over the fields. +September days! I’d stack ’em up against every bloody war for +supremacy, the confounded conceit of man--I’m talking like a poet. I’m +not a poet. I’m lazy. I like peace, and plenty to eat.” + +He laughed. “And you. I like you. You’re cute as the devil.” + +Lilah turned to him again and let him see the curve of her lips. She +had never been more vivacious. The city flowed by the cab windows with +a dignity impossible in a motor, taking place, not as kaleidoscopic +flashes in a cubistic ensemble, but as buildings, towers, parks and +people. In the wide brilliance of Madison Square there was time to +value the great campanile soaring out of the feathery green of the park +into a bland sky.... Then, more slowly, up the long incline to the +Library, where the lions seemed to gaze down their noses over invisible +spectacles; they had, Lilah remarked, a sort of haughty senility--Grand +Army of the Republic lions about to recite the “Battle of Gettysburg.” +One of them had worn a rakish snow hat during a February blizzard, +the other a white blanket about his middle, like a pet poodle in a +wooly-wooly.... + +Lilah found the city astonishingly beautiful--but something held her +from telling Robert Peabody so. He would not have shared her delight in +the unfinished masterpiece. New York, to him, was simply New York; like +so many New Yorkers, he suffered from a familiarity with marvels. Lilah +found it both monstrous and audacious. She had always tasted cities +as a connoisseur tastes wine. Now, in this slate-blue twilight, she +shivered with pleasure. The lava-stream of motors filled the air with a +sort of luxurious purring; it seemed to Lilah that the hidden springs +of vitality within herself had begun to vibrate, to hum, like harp +strings; she was vibrant. If some one would write a grand opera, not +in the manner of “Louise,” not lyric, amorous, but metallic, about New +York! The leit-motif, a theme of feverish, restless striving. The minor +melodies, machines, riveters, steam jets, whistles, sirens, bells, +six million human voices--unceasing, beating against the human heart +like the tom-tom of African drums. The sets ... from a window, streets +like Sienese back-alleys enormously exaggerated. Vast, tilting walls. +A few lights on the face of the cañon. Weight of stone and steel and +swaying towers. Or, a bloodless avenue of square monoliths, imposing, +imponderable, significant.... + +The cab turned into the Plaza, so long an upheaval of derricks, mud, +French Gothic and erratic statuary, now settled into a beauty of its +own, and Robert Peabody said: “Shall we stop here? Or do you prefer +the Park?” + +Lilah preferred the Park. + +They dined out-of-doors, their faces close together over a narrow +table. She found him more attractive here. He had a genial yet vigorous +manner of dealing with waiters and hat-boys, an almost aristocratic +indifference to publicity and he did not, after calling her “cute +as the devil,” come back to the attack. He let her see that he was +aware of the privilege of her company. There were other women in the +restaurant; a startlingly brunette girl in black satin which made her +look, Lilah thought, like a wet cod-fish, sat almost at his elbow, +yet he disposed of her, and her seduction, with a glance. He ordered +planked shad and regretted that there was no white wine; at the Point, +he had over a thousand bottles of Sauterne.... + +“I want to meet your grandfather,” Lilah interrupted. + +“He would like you. He doesn’t like Grace Fuller.” + +“Why?” + +Robert’s face puckered. “I don’t know.” + +Lilah said quickly, in a way she had of disposing of things: “She’s +not quite sane. She will never be contented. She’s such a darling ... +but she takes life too seriously. She depresses me. She’s like white +grass growing in a dark place.... I don’t know.... Yes, I do know. +She’s a celibate. I hope she’ll never marry. For her own sake. But more +for the man’s. I’d pity a man who found that instead of a woman he +had an obstinate, distorted idea in his arms. Not love at all, but a +misconception of love. She wants experience but runs away from it--she +curls her hair and rouges and then hides.” + +“I like her,” Peabody said. “But I don’t pretend to understand her. +Perhaps you are right.” + +“I know I’m right.” + +She dismissed Grace Fuller and set about captivating this rather +ponderous intelligence. Again, she relied on her quickness, her +intuition, her adroit penetration. He had been, evidently, upset by +mention of Grace Fuller; either he had a sense of responsibility or he +was annoyed by Lilah’s analysis. His was a basic honesty and loyalty. +She changed the subject to herself. She could see that she excited +him; he was, she had heard from Grace Fuller, accustomed to women who +preferred sport clothes and who rode to hounds; he had been brought up +in a society which imitated, on a smaller, more restricted scale, the +life of the English counties. He had had no intellectual companionship. +He could not juggle with the stock phrases of the _cognoscenti_; he +was too simple, or too indifferent, to acquire a modern vocabulary +of names and cults, movements and personalities. But she could stir +his imagination with herself, her decisive manner, her melting eyes, +the little upward turn of her mouth, as if, always, she wanted to be +kissed. She felt him leaning toward her, absorbed. She knew how to +make what she said audacious, and, by a subtle turn, to leave the +implication in doubt. She suggested desire without feeling it. This +was a part of what other people called her “technique.” She was not +unaware of it, but she did not consider that it was something she ought +to be ashamed of. Rather, it gave her an inestimable advantage. + +After dinner they walked through the park, their arms and shoulders +touching in the darkness. There was everywhere a subdued gurgle of +water in shallow basins or lipping the banks of the lake. Couples +passed, drifting, close together, with a murmur of voices. The blatant +artificiality of the landscape was blurred, softened, gathered into +somber walls of vegetation, threaded with globes of light. Groups of +people passed in and out of the shadows, made mysterious, dignified by +an unreality that had about it something of the theater. Faces glimpsed +in passing were indefinite; the sound of feet on the asphalt paths, the +murmur of voices were Venetian, melancholy.... + +Robert Peabody drew her arm through his. At Eighty-fifth Street, as +they crossed the road, he raised his cane and signalled for a cab. +Lilah sank back with a little sigh. + +“This is comfortable! Let’s drive.” + +Suddenly his arm went about her shoulders. She was surprised at the +strength, the violence of his grasp. + +“You’re adorable. Let me kiss you.” + +She shook her head. “No.” + +But he bent down, kissed her, once, twice, a dozen times. She was +breathless, angry, frightened, but helpless in the circle of his arm. +“Don’t! Don’t!” she said. “Please. Here....” + +She heard him say: “I love you. I want you to marry me.” + +Her heart contracted. How on earth had this happened? What would the +driver think of such a scene? This was what, all along, she had wanted. +He had everything ... everything.... Something in his eyes, his voice, +husky, shaken, made her know that he loved her. It would be easy to +manage him.... Love.... She couldn’t expect to kiss him like that at +once. As always, she shrank from contact. But if she.... + +“Answer. Open your eyes.” + +She made a struggle to throw into her expression something ardent, +convincing. And lifting her face, she kissed him. She need not say, at +once, the words he expected. She was not as dishonest as that.... A +wave of feeling, relief, excitement, went over her. His head fell back, +down again, on her shoulder. He was, suddenly, weak, surrendered to +his emotion. She saw the back of his neck, his close, blonde hair. The +intimacy of their attitude assailed her and she pushed him away. + +“Not here. Later....” + +“You’ll marry me?” + +“Yes. Yes.” + +She lifted her arms and straightened her hat. Then she felt her hand +seized and his lips fastened on her fingers, hungry, insatiable.... + + + + +III + + +Lilah was afraid to tell Grace Fuller that she had promised to marry +Robert Peabody. Her conscience, an inconsistent element in her nature, +disturbed her to the extent of making her irritable. She went to her +room without saying good night. + +She was trembling with excitement and could not sleep. Instead, wrapped +in a kimono, she paced the floor, seeing her white face at intervals in +the oval mirror of her dressing-table. + +What would her life be with Robert Peabody? Not what she had dreamed, +certainly. She would have the scope money affords. But not the pride of +love; she would always be a little ashamed of Robert. She did not know +why, exactly. To justify her acceptance of him, she assured herself +that she could change him, pour him out of his mold into hers. Yet she +shivered with apprehension. He might guess her lack of feeling and +grow cold himself. Men wanted love, the gestures and jealousies, the +unconsidered, delicious abandonments, passion. She could never give him +this. And she would miss the wild sweetness, the danger, the pain of +love that is mutual, acknowledged. But she wanted ease.... + +She paused to stare at herself. Perhaps she was wrong. There might +not be love of that sort. Perhaps she was giving Robert all that he, +or any man, expected--her prettiness, her charm, her youth. He must +be forty. He had had experience--but, good heavens, she couldn’t be +jealous! Only he mustn’t go on; if she married him, he must be loyal.... + +Pacing the room again, she pictured herself in possession, at last, +of security. It was humiliating to battle with poverty when you had +no wits with which to pull yourself out; if she had been one of those +clever girls who stalk success, on the stage, in studios, newspaper +offices, shops.... She hadn’t their courage or their audacity; she +despised struggle. + +Persistently, the idea returned, that she was cheating. She recalled, +with a shudder, an instinctive recoil, his attitude as he bent over her +hands--it had been both supplicating and possessive. + +What she was doing was immoral, wrong. She had been brought up to +believe that such a step leads to good, old-fashioned perdition, +hell, damnation and brim-stone. Experience had taught her that in all +probability she would suffer, but that if she were clever she could +balance the advantage against the price; wealth against Robert, love +against comfort; she threw her charm in, to square the account. She +could be generous on that score. She would dress remarkably well; she +would create an interesting atmosphere, and if Robert did not know +the most entertaining personalities in New York, she would get them +together; before long, she would be a famous hostess. In just that, +her ability to attract people, lay her genius. She could, given the +means, make living an art, create, out of places and people, something +unique and memorable, as Lorenzo of the Medici had made his pages, his +poets, his ladies and his gardens into an immortal legend. Why not? +American literature had recently exploited the soda-water clerk and the +corner groceryman, the farmer, the traveling salesman, the immigrant +and the crook. No one was interested in the spiritual reactions of +that almost extinct dodo, the gentleman. Nothing was art that did not +deal with a profane ape groping for the stars and missing them! The +more interesting and complex society was overlooked in this effort to +capture the soul of what Lilah called the proletariat; it proved, this +soul, as elusive as a flea. One was left with the conviction that the +country was populated by illiterate sensualists--a vast, imponderable +mediocrity. There was no one else. The fine flower had withered in the +clutches of this overwhelming parasite. An inchoate fumbling at the +foundations ... a wail of protest ... ignorance and braggadocio.... + +Or else, they advertised the flapper, the country-club habitué, the +pathological spinster and the cad. Society was constantly being +reminded that it was rotten. Novelists were what David Brenner had +called himself, alley-cats pawing over garbage. Apparently, the brave +and the witty, the poetic, the exquisite were, for artistic purposes, +fresh sardines. The cry was for Truth, and the whole pack ignored any +truth that was not putrefied, or, at least, stale.... + +Lilah thought: “I can do something to change this.” + +The idea trailed off into a vision, a spectacle, a kind of +entertainment in which she played the leading rôle. She saw the house +she would have in New York. Herself, in gray brocade trimmed at the +neck and hem with fur, her feet in brocaded slippers, advancing across +an immense, glowing room, her hand outstretched.... + + * * * * * + +She did not want to hurt Grace Fuller. At breakfast she shivered with +dread. It would be like putting poison in a cat’s milk. She expected to +see Grace Fuller actually foam and shriek and stiffen and then stretch +out dead on the kitchen floor, her bang in curl and the pallor of her +cheeks brushed faintly with expensive rouge. + +Lilah was very tender. She made pop-overs and cooked the hominy in a +double boiler. She hovered over Grace Fuller, who ate with precision, +as if she were afraid of exuberance, as if, Lilah thought, she were +guarding herself against some strain of hysteria. + +Lilah said suddenly: “Robert asked me to marry him last night. I said +I would. I know you’ll think I’m a liar. I didn’t really want him +yesterday morning! When he kissed me--I did.” + +Miss Fuller went on buttering a slice of toast. She did it thoroughly. +Then she said in an absolutely unchanged voice: “What are you going to +do for a trousseau?” + +Lilah flushed crimson. To cover her relief, she opened the oven door. +She had expected something more--more feminine. She said: “I thought +you cared.” + +“I do.... I learned certain things in France. One of them was not to +care too much.” + +“I didn’t know you went to France, Grace.” + +“Three years.... And things like this happened.... At Soissons there +was a French boy, about twenty-two years old. He looked nineteen. They +brought him in with a wound in his abdomen--he told me, that first day, +that he had looked down at himself and had seen his own intestine. He +was going to die. They all said so. We were being shelled, and every +night we had to carry the wounded into the cellar. He couldn’t be +moved. And while all the rest of them cried out and groaned or made a +joke of it, he said nothing. The wards were dark. They let me have a +baby flash which I held under my apron, and I used to run back to him. +Sometimes the racket was fearful--that long howl and screech of shells +passing over. Sometimes it was quiet as the tomb. I was never sure +whether that boy was alive until I saw his eyes, blue, steady, patient, +asking me to pull him through.... Well, I did! He was my case. He got +well. The day came when he was out in the garden in a chair, and then +he was in uniform again, going home....” + +Grace Fuller shrugged her shoulders. “I cared. Terribly. It was my own +little victory. He was a brave boy. I used to gloat over the fact that +I had cheated death.... Then, one night, a year later, they brought him +in again. I was standing in the hall when the ambulances came. There +had been a drive and we had our hands full. Suddenly I saw him. His +stretcher was sopping with blood. He had gone back as an observer and +his plane had been shot down ... he was riddled. But he knew me. And +again he asked me to see him through. _I couldn’t!_ He died there, in +the hall ... my victory! And I had to see those patient eyes fill up +with distrust, with protest, with a sort of mocking challenge, as he +felt himself slipping out of my arms into that red tide....” + +She rose, folding her napkin into a neat square. + +“Since then, I haven’t let myself care.” + +“How did you stand it?” + +“What?” + +“The war.” + +“I didn’t stand it. I changed my nature.” + +Lilah said: “I wanted to do something--help.... But the women over +here acted so badly I was ashamed.... They seemed to enjoy, some of +them, all the risk and death. You’d see them rushing down the library +steps, their faces red, clutching at men, trying to drag them into it: +‘You’re going to fight, aren’t you? Why aren’t _you_ in khaki?’ And +then the Liberty drives ... a sort of circus parade of ambulances, +stretchers, posters smeared with blood, pictures of atrocities--that +terrible one by George Bellows, of a massacre at Dinard.... People +were excited. They took a sort of morbid pleasure. I wanted to stay +out of it and hold on to sanity, if I could. It never ‘got’ me. And +when the wounded began to arrive, it was worse. One of the doctors at +Greenhut’s told me that they had to force the women out. They weren’t +all of them sympathetic; they wanted to look at the wounded. The way +a crowd rushes to an accident.... Morbid. Even the women who danced +with the soldiers and sailors and knitted in the theaters struck me as +ridiculous.... I hated it.” + +“It was better in France.” + +A silence fell and Lilah’s cheeks burned again. She rolled the sleeves +of her dress above her elbows and began to clear the table. Miss Fuller +stood, rigid and uncompromising. Presently, in her usual precise voice, +she said: “If you are going to marry Robert, you’ll have to have some +clothes. Have you any money?” + +“No.” + +“How much would you need to see you through? I have saved a little. +I’ll let you have it.” + +“I can’t allow you to do that.” + +“Why not?” + +“I’ve hurt you----” + +“No, you haven’t.” Unexpectedly, she put her arms around Lilah. “I want +you to be happy. I admire you enormously.” + +Lilah hugged her. “Darling Grace! After all, it’s better that I should +have him. You’ve got strength, and I haven’t. Left alone, I’d sink.” + +“Oh, I’ll swim,” Grace Fuller admitted. “Women like me always do! We +give the impression of strength because we have our imaginations under +control. I’m as helpless as you are, but I won’t admit it. The men of +my family were all farmers. From them, perhaps, I got my tolerance. I +can’t blame you. I wish I could! I can’t blame Robert. I have none +of the usual feminine eagerness to blame men for everything that goes +wrong. You probably think I have no standards. I haven’t. I understand +too well.” + +She went into the other room and came back wearing her hat, with a +rather dog-eared fur neck-piece clasped under her chin; in high, tight +collars she had the swan-like look of Consuela. Lilah was deeply sorry +for her. For the moment she felt herself inferior. + +“I can let you have five hundred dollars, Lilah. Don’t tell Robert.” + +The telephone rang. They looked at each other with a glance stripped +naked of pretense. + +“Go. It’s Robert.” + +“No! No!” + +“Hurry! Please.” + +Lilah went. She put the receiver to her ear with a certain dread, a +reluctance. + +And she heard Robert’s voice, vibrant, saying: “Lilah? Sweetheart! I +want you to meet me for lunch. We’ll buy that ring. What d’you say?” He +broke off. “Is Grace there?” + +“No,” Lilah said distinctly. + +She turned her head and saw the door closing. + +“No,” she repeated. “I’m alone.” + + * * * * * + +Lilah was married a month later, in Junius Peabody’s house at the Point. + +She had had an overwhelming four weeks. Grace Fuller’s five hundred +dollars had no more than cleared the first hurdle. When Robert Peabody +asked her whether she wanted pearls or a bandeau of diamonds, she had +replied: “I prefer the money. I don’t care for jewels, and there are +all sorts of things I want, and need; foolish things I can’t afford.” + +He had given her a check for five thousand dollars. + +With this sum deposited and in possession of a book of blanks smartly +bound in leather, Lilah reversed her mask of poverty. She wore, +instead, her most devastating sophistication, a fetching air of +patronage and sweetness. Her first pilgrimage was to the gray stone +house in the Fifties occupied by the esthetic and sharp couturière who +had refused her a chance to work. She sent word to him that she was +interested, this time, in a “wardrobe.” She was wearing a slim and +expensive frock of red crêpe and a Paisley turban. She was positively +beautiful; her slimness, her arched feet in delicate shoes, her gloves, +were dominating. + +The dressmaker (his name was Maurice) pretended not to recognize her. +With a bow, he led her to his show rooms and, summoning a saleswoman, +entered, in French, into a passionate discussion of Lilah’s height, her +coloring, her possibilities. One of the deep-skinned models trailed +upon the scene in a sheath of gold cloth, dragging behind her a tail of +emerald green chiffon. She met Lilah’s stare with an expression totally +blank, as if she were walking in her sleep. Maurice sent for materials, +yards and yards of brocade, metallic cloth, crêpe de Chine; jade, +orange, violet and dull red mingled on the floor, the backs of chairs, +across lacquered screens and tables. This profligate heap of stuffs +went to Lilah’s head, but she preserved her air of polite indifference, +sitting with crossed knees, her feet, in the elaborate, strapped shoes, +displayed.... The model, she decided, had ugly ankles. + + * * * * * + +At lunch that day she told Robert of her purchases. + +He shook his head. “Where shall you wear them? Peabody’s Point is a +wilderness--the three houses, my own, my father’s and my grandfather’s, +a deep forest of maples, pines and birch, and the sea! We seldom see +any one, but when we do, they come on horse-back or by motor. It is +astonishing when the women wear evening clothes. On great occasions, a +house warming or a birthday or a dance--once, or twice, a year--there +is some show of ceremony.... You will find us very rural.” + +Lilah stifled her disappointment. “Shan’t we live in town in the +winter?” + +“If you like. We have a house in Thirty-eighth Street. It is closed +now.” + +“Take me there!” + +The rooms were dark, and when, admitted by a caretaker, Lilah and +Robert explored the first two floors, they found the furniture +swaddled in linen, the chandeliers wearing net veils, like Bluebeard’s +brides, and the rugs rolled back. The house was an exact example of +the New York residence of the early Eighties. The marble mantels were +surmounted by elaborate, wooden fret-work, an intricacy of shelves +and pilasters, screens and grills, roosting place for those useless, +ugly and enormously expensive vases of the period. Mirrors divided the +windows and curtains of dark red velvet were looped up, held clear of +the floor by chenille ropes. There was a multiplicity of cushions, +tables, tabourettes; paintings, in deep frames, by Rosa Bonheur, Henner +and Corot, and one luminous and arresting Inness, a landscape with elms +and a river, sunlight and haze, russet, gold, and blue. Lilah seized +upon this as a reason for enthusiasm. + +“My grandfather understands pictures,” Robert explained. “Even the +modern fellows! I don’t. No one has ever taken the trouble to explain +what they’re all about.” + +“Don’t you like this?” + +“Oh, yes. But Inness wasn’t a modern exactly.” + +Suddenly he put his arm through Lilah’s and said: “You’re so clever. If +I didn’t know what a darling you are, I’d be afraid of you. I want you +to teach me all these things--what I should like, and why. I don’t want +you to be ashamed of me.” + +Lilah, with a pretty bend of her head, put her face against his +shoulder. She was feeling mellow, generous. This house, a valuable +property in Murray Hill, was soon to be hers. Going from room to room, +she mentally refurnished it. + +“I don’t like the house,” she said frankly. “It’s hideous--all this +Victorian velvet and ebony. Horrible!” + +“Lilah!” + +His expression warned her. “You sweet old stupid! Of course it’s +horrible.” + +He stammered: “It’s a sort of--of monument to my grandmother.” + +“A mausoleum,” she corrected. “We’ll change it.” + + * * * * * + +Miss Fuller would not go to the Point for the wedding. She had, she +insisted, an important case out of town. And, with her neat traveling +bag and the fur neck-piece, she started off the day before Lilah left +town. She had agreed to keep the apartment and to pay the astonished +agent on the first of every month. + +Lilah went alone. Robert had engaged a compartment for her; she found +flowers, candy, books there; _Lilah Norris_, written on Robert’s +cards, thrust hastily into envelopes stamped with the names of shops +internationally famous. The porter, judging from his eagerness, had +been tipped. When he closed her into this walnut and green plush cell, +he reminded her that he would call her at five. She would be “put off” +at Peabody’s Point at five forty-five.... + +The train moved out of the city, boring its way through the tunnel into +a twilight studded with red and green, white and topaz-yellow flashes. +A glimpse of the river. Tall stacks. Then darkness, broken by suburban +stations, where, for an instant, people and motors were glimpsed in a +strange immobility, as if painted on the car windows. + +Lilah undressed. She enjoyed the unaccustomed luxury of her traveling +things, so unlike the pack she had slung across her shoulder in +Switzerland. Her night-gown was sheer batiste, scalloped, threaded with +white ribbon. She braided her hair, switched off the light and lay on +her side, staring out of the window. The silence was clamorous, yet she +could hear the beating of her own heart. She pressed her hands there, +frightened. + +She was going to marriage, in which, supposedly, she would never again +be alone, like this.... Never again alone.... She ran her hands over +her body, jealous of herself. Life, the crude fact, was unimaginable; +she was aloof; somehow, she would gain time, hold herself for herself a +little longer.... Outside a late moon had pierced the usual smokiness +of a city sky. Trees brushed by. The odor of the flowers sent by Robert +was sickish in the close room.... Lilah felt suddenly the weight of +his affection, his conquest. She burned with anger, with a sort of +resentment. How could he think, expect.... She thought of running away, +giving him the slip.... They would find the compartment, the roses, his +fatuous cards, but no Lilah. No woman. She pressed her face into the +pillow and cried. She was infinitely sorry for herself, desolate. If +only she were simple! If only she could love, accept, like other women! + + * * * * * + +In the morning she was happier, sustained by excitement. + +While she dressed, she glanced out of the window at a northern +landscape of carelessly cleared fields now white with daisies, patches +of pine and maple, and, beyond, a range of hills, sharply outlined +against a clear, white sky. Puffs of air came through the screen +infinitely fresh and cool; country air. Lilah took deep breaths. + +At the station, where the train stopped only long enough to let down +a grinning porter and a step, Robert was waiting. He lifted her down, +kissed her. She was instantly conscious of a difference in him; his +coat was rough and cold; his face was red, sun-burned. And his hair, +always so smooth and well-brushed, had blown askew, over his forehead. +It got in his eyes and he smoothed it back with an impatience, a +carelessness, new to her. + +“Grandfather is waiting. The early morning air isn’t awfully good for +him. He sent apologies.” + +He hurried her into an open motor and the robe was adjusted about her +knees. Robert drove. And again she noticed that he was in some sense +more free. His hands on the wheel were casual but in control; with a +quick turn of his head he scanned the road and turned north with a +burst of speed startling in a man usually so hesitant and cautious. + +“Five miles,” he shouted. “We live at the end of nowhere. Our property +already--all these fields. Wait until you see the woods!” + +The woods were somber in the morning light, green as trees are in +stage-settings, immensely tall and close and straight, upon a carpet of +moss and fern, wintergreen and arbutus. The road at intervals crossed a +bridle-path, now and then emerging into cleared spaces where a tangle +of clover, buttercups and daisies grew lush, knee-deep. + +Robert brought the car to a standstill and turned to Lilah. His face +was older in an unexpected seriousness. “This is all yours, Lilah. I +am yours. Does it mean anything to you that I love you so? Your coming +here has made me terribly happy--a queer sort of happiness, for I +can’t sleep or eat. I ache for you. I want you to kiss me of your own +accord....” + +“Haven’t I, ever?” + +“No.” + +She lifted her face, but at the first light contact of her lips, he +could not have told whether she loved him or not. He gave to the +embrace all the feeling he craved from her. She was overwhelmed, +relieved. Nothing was required of her; she need not show herself, give +herself up. Not yet.... She smiled, with closed eyes.... + +Suddenly he let her go. Almost violently he relaxed his hold, so that +she fell back and away from him. + +“If you don’t love me, Lilah,” he said, in a dry voice, “say so.” + +Lilah protested: “I do! What on earth makes you ask?” + +Robert Peabody did not answer, but sat bent forward over the wheel, +as if, at a signal from her, he would start the car and drive back to +the station. His expression was terrible; somehow, she knew that he +had sensed her relief in the moment just passed. She had hurt him. It +wasn’t going to be altogether easy. + +In a silence made poignant by a stir of branches and the early morning +clamor of birds, she fought for the right words, the gesture that would +reassure him. Her hand touched his sleeve, crept down to his hand +clenched on the wheel. “It is all new,” she began, “strange.... It +isn’t love so much that I feel, but recognition ... of you, and this +place ... mine ... you might be a little patient....” + +He bent swiftly and kissed her fingers. The car sprang forward into the +forest again. + + * * * * * + +She did not glimpse the sea until they were fairly out of the wood and +making a wide turn in a sort of park, where moss and fern gave way +to an incredibly deep sward, smooth, emerald-green. She saw a house, +another, and a sparkle of water beyond. At once she could smell the +sea, kelp, sweet and sickish, salty. Robert had not spoken, but now he +turned and said: “Here we are! Lilah! Home!” + +He swept into a gravel driveway and under a porte-cochère.... She +was getting out, rather faint, frightened now that she had committed +herself.... A servant spoke to her and Robert said: “Miss Norris, +Maisie.” + +“How do you do, Miss Norris? I’m sure we’re all very glad.” + +The hall, within, was dark--too much wood-work, and a huge, stone +mantel, top-heavy. Lilah put her hand up to her hat, and, turning +instinctively in search of a mirror, found herself confronting an old +man. + +“My grandfather,” Robert said. “This is Lilah.” + +Junius Peabody was tall and very handsome, at eighty-four. He offered +his hand, and Lilah, giving her own into that dry, rather bony clasp, +met his eyes. They were black, deep-set, with something ironic, +quizzical, in their depths, like a spark of light at the bottom of a +well. He wore a heavy mustache, perhaps to hide the leanness of his +cheeks. He had what Robert had missed, a flame of some sort, a feeling +for things, for life, for women, for beauty. + +“Lilah? May I?” + +She felt his lips on her cheek, and noticed a faint odor of Cologne. + +“You must be tired. Will you breakfast with us? Or, perhaps, later--” + +“Breakfast, by all means,” Lilah said. “I’m not tired. I’m very excited +and happy.” + +She was, inexplicably, exhilarated again. The old man’s look had been +appraising, and satisfied. He found her delightful. She knew this, +and because she was certain that he was not easily pleased, she could +afford to be flattered. He moved at her side through the house, across +a large, cluttered room to a veranda, where Venetian shades were +half-drawn against the brilliance of the sea in full sunlight; a table +had been set for breakfast. Geraniums in boxes hedged the veranda on +three sides. Beyond, a narrow garden separated the house from a pebbly +beach and rocks covered with brown kelp. + +“Low tide,” Junius Peabody remarked. + +It was not the house she had pictured. There were no Italian gardens. +But there was something substantial and vigorously assertive in the +ugly width and spread of the wings, the turrets and verandas and +useless, expensive ornamentation. In the Eighties this would have been +a “place.” Meadows of wet kelp mingled with the fragrant spiciness of +geraniums. A man servant in an apron, very old, with a crumpled mouth +in a pink face, brought coffee. And Robert said: “Miss Norris, Edwin.” +Lilah put just the right shade of interest into the pronouncement +of the word “Edwin” with a rising inflection. She loved Edwin. She +loved Junius. She loved Robert. She was conscious of being more +charming, more herself, than she had ever been in a life given over to +being, always, some one unlike the real Lilah. The real Lilah was a +delightful, amusing, affecting little person. + +Once over that moment of appraisal, Junius Peabody made it plain that +he approved of her. + +And after breakfast, brushing his mustache with a large cambric +handkerchief, he walked with her into what he called the “greenery,” +a park-like place at the back of the house away from the sea where a +gardener worked among formal beds of Spring flowers. “No, Robert, you +stay back--I want Lilah to myself.” + +Robert disappeared and Lilah threw a kiss, very prettily, at his back. + +“Robert would like to show you the kennels, but that can wait.” + +Lilah said impulsively: “It was good of you to let me come here to be +married. I am very alone.... The few relatives I have are in the West, +and I don’t like any of them. They will not approve of my marrying so +soon. But my father wouldn’t care, so why should I?” + +They crossed the greenery and, without comment, Junius Peabody pointed +out another house. “My son’s. He died ten years ago. We have closed +the place. Robert didn’t like it. I’ll show you his house, later. +Although I dare say you will want to change it, it is modern enough. +This, you see, is what I call the East Aurora period; it was built in +nineteen-four, when America was beginning to absorb the Morris a b c’s. +Inside it is worse.... Hand-tooled by Fra Bunco....” He broke off. +“What perfume is that? Sandalwood? Delicious. My dear, we are delighted +to welcome you.” And before she could thank him, he began again: “I am +really astonished. I didn’t expect you to be--what you are. You are +very clever; I can see that. Robert won’t understand you, but that +won’t matter if you see to it that he isn’t humiliated. A woman must +never be conspicuously superior to her husband. I dare say you know +just what you are doing.” + +With a flash of anger, she said: “I am very fond of him!” + +“I’m glad of that.” + +They came into a small grove of pines, young trees near the sea, and +on the shore, built upon the dunes, she saw another, smaller house, +gray-shingled with gray blinds and stone chimneys. This, she realized, +was to be her home. At first glance, it seemed a desolate place; +there was no garden, only the white sand blown into little hills, and +glistening, thick blades of dune grass and, beyond, the sea. Always +keen to beauty, she resented the uncompromising grayness of the house. +“The blinds should be blue,” she said quickly, “and there should be +yellow and blue awnings and a brick terrace at the back with hydrangeas +in pots. Why not a wall on this side and turf and some poplars?” + +Junius Peabody laughed. “You must ask Robert. He will do anything you +suggest. He is very much in love with you.... I think you two will +make a go of it if you won’t be impatient. Robert will be stubborn if +you criticize him. He isn’t as simple or as pliable as he seems, on +the surface, to be. His father, not I, was responsible for his career. +My son had no more sense of the beautiful than his house indicates; +he lived only to serve my creation, Peabody and Sons. He never loved +or needed to love. He quite literally worked himself to death and +collapsed in harness. But he wanted Robert to do the same thing, and, +to prepare him, sent him to a boys’ school at Territet and then to +Columbia! And then, by way of hardening him, a trip around the world! +For one year before his father died, Robert sat in an office in the +Peabody Building in Boston, staring out of the window.... It might have +been, in the end, a tragedy.” + +He took her arm. “Let’s go back. Robert will want you, and I don’t like +the sun.” + + * * * * * + +That night she talked to him again. A mist had come up, opaque, +chilly, and at intervals a buoy beyond the reef tolled like a ship’s +bell. A fire was lighted in the drawing-room, and Lilah, in a gown of +disturbing simplicity, very short, faced Junius Peabody. He had the +outlines she most admired, a distinguished thinness; his wrists and +ankles were characteristic, slender. His elegance was stressed; he had +not Robert’s unawareness; the details of Junius Peabody’s dress were, +to the least fold of a tie, considered, epicurean. And this ceremony +somehow detracted from his age, gave him an appearance not in the least +jaunty, but vivacious. When Lilah dressed for dinner, she chose her +gown for him, not for Robert; she had found, in Junius, an audience +appreciative of those things Robert overlooked. She thought: “While +he’s alive, I shall be happy here. I like him because he won’t give +in to being old. He never apologizes.” She had, she knew, brought him +something he longed for and was too proud to seek, youth and the little +drama of furbelows and perfumes, ribbons and silk stockings. She was +pert enough to amuse him. He would have despised a sentimental woman. + +Robert left them again. One of his favorite dogs had developed a +distemper and he went away, wrapped in a great coat, to spend a +watchful night beside a box full of straw where the silver gray bitch +lay on her side, panting. Robert’s face was puckered with regret and +humiliation. “I know you’ll think I’m a fool! But that dog’s damned +sick, Lilah.” + +When he had gone, Junius Peabody said: “In my day, Edwin would have sat +up with the dog. Love isn’t what it used to be.” + +“I don’t mind,” Lilah said. “Grace Fuller warned me.” + +“She did, did she?” The old man jerked in his chair. “Unpleasant +female. I never liked her. She made me feel that my illusions were +hocus-pocus, rubbish. As if she had spotted all my weaknesses and could +put her finger on them, the way those osteopath chaps pick out sore +spots on your spine. Here, vanity. There, arrogance. And down the line.” + +He chose a cigar from a silver box at his elbow. + +“I don’t want the truth. At my age, it’s dangerous. I am like a twist +of paper that has gone up in flames; the shape remains, but at a touch +will crumble away.... Excuse me, my dear. I do not often mention my +age. After all, I may live twenty years, and I must not shrink from the +dust too soon.” + +He reflected, with a curious gratification, that he was at last +very safe from life, because he no longer cared what happened to +him--nothing _could_ happen. He was free from his old restless +curiosity, his desire to be always in contact with experience. + +“You, my dear, are still seeking the unattainable. Immeasurably +superior--old age! You want big happenings; I am content with little +happenings. Thank God, I’m not a dyspeptic ... men who understand food +never are. I’ve never bolted, like these modern business men. To +be appreciated, done justice, breakfast must be given half an hour, +luncheon an hour, dinner two hours. There’s something vulgar in this +dishing up and gobbling down.... Robert says you’re a good cook.” + +“I am,” Lilah admitted. + +“You must make something for me. Even a potato--boiled with +art--Consider the slow, the exquisite processes of its growth! The +earth must be turned, the seed planted. Then the feathery stalks, the +white blossoms, the root upturned, the gathering.... Some conception of +the potato must be in the seed, an immortal thought contained within +the physical means of realization. Very comforting, that idea! It gives +one at least the security of divine attention. Could there have been, +before I was at all, a picture of me, dry as dust, tall and gaunt, with +this mustache? Perhaps! The finished product must be contained in the +germ, irrevocable, bound to materialize.” + +“Fatalist!” Lilah cried. + +“Otherwise, wouldn’t an onion grow into an oak tree, a toad into +an eagle, a mushroom into a man? The intention must be there along +with the cell structure! Stay as you are, my dear--you are a lovely +celestial mistake, an orchid grown into a woman!” + +He was very particular about his cigar--a mild panetela with an easy +pull. He sliced off the tip with a pen-knife, squeezed slowly between +thumb and forefinger, held the cigar against the light, took it between +his lips, sucked, closed his eyes, and, opening them suddenly, applied +the match. + +“Havana,” he said. “I smoked my first cigar in Hergesheimerland.... But +I mustn’t go back! Old men are always doing that, perhaps because youth +takes on a patina with years.” + +“Were you happy?” Lilah asked. + +“Never! Avid. Insatiable. Restless. Always goaded by desire--but not +happy. Now, at eighty-four, I know how to live. I know that familiarity +is more precious than novelty, and that relaxation is sweeter than +distraction.” + +Lilah shook her head. “I don’t believe you. You are as eager as I am, +perhaps more so.” + +“The world of men is behind--the world of spirit opens up. You don’t +believe that, either. Wait until you are alone with yourself--if you +out-live your family, as I have. My wife, Minnie, my two brothers, my +son. Robert doesn’t count. He is a remote descendant.” + +“You won’t die,” Lilah said. + +“I may,” he admitted, with a smile faintly ironic. “Although I have +always believed that I neither would nor could! The earth is too sweet +and I have loved ... everything. Other men don’t. They die complaining +of a lack, where I have found a surfeit of beauty. For twenty years +I’ve been burying people who didn’t love enough, little disappointed +people, jealous, enraged, all of them! Because youth had gone! Youth!” + +He stood up. And with that quick, faintly unsteady gait, he went to the +mantel, staring up at the portrait of a young man in a black coat, a +white waist-coat and tie who sat, stiff and somehow violent, in a red +velvet chair. The thick, black brows almost met above the bridge of the +nose; the lips were full, both sensual and ironic; the eyes small and +dark. A dark skin stained with red-- + +“They used to say I was ‘foreign’ looking. And I was proud of it. My +wife rather disapproved.” + +He sat down again, stroking his chin. “Poor Minnie! Poor girl! To be +foreign wasn’t quite respectable in the ’Sixties. But there you have +me--young! And miserable.” + +“Why miserable?” + +“What do you know about love?” he demanded suddenly. “Pretty minx, +sitting there with your cigarette, talking to me when you should be out +in the fog with your lover. You modern women are as cold as ice. You’re +not normal. Nothing about you is rational except your love of finery. +I have a streak of it in myself. I can remember my wife’s night gowns +where I have forgotten her opinions. You haven’t changed in _that_. So +many scents and sachets, little scissors, sticks, powders, essences, +curls, bandoline and brilliantine, creams and rouges. Precious things +put away in drawers, wrapped in tissue-paper, hidden in boxes! Rites of +beauty! For men? For love? Instinct? Nothing else is left--” + +He broke off. Lilah watched the fire-light strike flashes in the +buckles of her slippers. What an amusing old sensualist! What was he +trying to prove? That he hadn’t loved his wife or that she didn’t love +Robert? + +“I won’t argue,” she said. “Women _are_ different. Why not? They are no +longer deceived about love....” + +“Ah.” He stared at her down his nose. + +“There isn’t time for loving nowadays.” Lilah insisted. “Not your sort.” + +“My sort?” + +“I realize--” + +“What you youngsters _don’t_ realize,” he interrupted, with a touch of +anger, “is that the old are unchanged, within. The casing is rusty, but +the springs and wheels are as good as ever. What makes us different is +our nearness to death. We don’t change, otherwise.” + +He rose again and beckoned to her. “Come into the library; I want to +show you something.” + +As she followed him, he said: “This isn’t my taste. My wife controlled +the furnishing of our houses--a Victorian feminine prerogative.” + +“I know. I have seen the house in Murray Hill.” + +“I never live there. It is cruelly innocent.” + +“May I change it?” + +“Of course.” + +“Then you aren’t sentimental.” + +He stroked his chin, again Lilah saw that look of rather Hogarthian +humor. + +“My wife was a dear little soul. She loved me; she disapproved of me; +she died for me, not guessing, thank God, that she had never entered +my imagination.... This tobacco jar was my grand-uncle Stephen’s. He +brought it from England, a hundred years ago.” + +He paused in the hall. “A few of these things are mine. If I could +count on twenty years, I’d build the sort of house I like. These +Chippendale chairs--gratifying, aren’t they? That ship’s model over the +door--a full-rigged whaler! And this jade; milky, like moonlight.... +The Chinese are real craftsmen. ‘White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, +ringed with blue lines--’ Eh? Why not? Better than hymns and prayers +and incantations. Now you know how spiritual I am! If love of this sort +of thing is pagan, then I am pagan, and proud of it. I would rather +carve a piece of jade into such loveliness than save a soul....” + +He opened a door and Lilah preceded him into a room smaller than the +others. A coal-fire had burned low in a shallow grate. There were +several lamps, easy chairs and many shelves of books. + +Lilah put her pointed slipper on the fender and glanced up at him. +“Your room?” + +He said: “It’s quiet, and everything is mine. That picture up there is +by Kent.” + +“I don’t like it. It’s too frosty.” + +“How about this Shinn?” + +“Naughty!” Lilah exclaimed, rather shocked by the naked little woman in +a garden hat who was reading a French novel. “Do you like it?” + +“Very much.” + +Suddenly he tossed the unfinished cigar into the grate. “Sit down. I +want to tell you something. Something very personal. About myself. +I’ve never told any one. It needn’t embarrass you. But it might help +you.” + +He went to a writing desk that was closed, and, producing a key from +his watch-chain, he unlocked the top and opened it. It seemed to Lilah +that he was a bit unsteady. Perhaps so much talk wasn’t good for +him. He turned, holding a small package of letters, the envelopes, +inscribed to Junius Peabody in a big, square hand, bearing the stamp +of Italy like a seal. “I can recapture,” he said, “the old magic, just +by touching these letters.... They are letters from a woman.... They +have nothing to do with my wife, or my son, or Robert. But they have +everything to do with people like ourselves.” + +He sat down in the chair facing hers; sank back, still holding the +slender packet of letters. He seemed, in an odd way, to be conjuring +up some memory, summoning back a great happening that had grown dim in +outline. For a moment, she thought he had ceased to breathe. Then, in a +rather broken voice, he began to tell her what he saw: + + * * * * * + +He was in Venice, Venice still under the shadow of the Austrian eagle, +yet, as always, incomparable; a city of bizarre façades reflected in +salty lagoons; nothing classical--he despised neo-classicism--but +cupids, garlands, fore-shortened goddesses, golden! He had sensed the +Venice of Longhi, thank God! Of Titian. Of Veronese. These catapulting +Venuses and rampant Mars, these lions and gilt domes and love-songs! +Nothing mattered save his own recognition of beauty. And for a while +it bowled him over. + +A woman was part of it, touched by the same unreality, removed from all +experience. + +He had left Minnie, his wife, that summer, in this very house, while he +went off to Europe chasing rainbows. + +The quest had been much deeper than that, only he had been afraid to +acknowledge it. Rainbows were no part of his need; he was in pursuit +of the intangible justification, something Minnie could not give him. +Minnie was life. He wanted, as he supposed all such men sooner or later +want, the illusion of life. + +In Venice, he had met the woman. No need to tell Lilah her name; that +would be beyond the point. She had put him right again, reaching +delicately, expertly, into his spirit, setting his psychic house in +order. + +How? He didn’t know. She was a woman of women, sane, fearless, +magnificent. + +A week only. Out of a lifetime, he reflected, this seemed meager +compensation. Yet he supposed that few men had had as much. A week in +Longhi’s Venice with a woman in whom purity wore a lace mask; a woman +strangely aloof, strangely seductive, possessed of a miraculous and +unbroken mystery. She had loved him and had told him nothing of herself. + +He remembered her, wearing white; he could not recall the style, but +people stared at her. She was a tawny woman, dark-skinned, tall, with +topaz eyes, and she moved with a sort of slow grace--every pose an +immortal loveliness. A foreigner. That something “foreign” in him had +leaped to the encounter. So, at least, he justified his passion. They +seldom spoke. It had been, nevertheless, communion. Everything about +her delighted him--her jewels, her parasols, her perfumes. She was +distinguished. + +Yet she could play her part in their brief personal drama like an +artist, delighting in him, in their climaxes, their interludes, +their sure approach to the inevitable finale, savoring each detail. +What a woman! He had had no twinge of conscience; almost, he had +forgotten Minnie. He had had his week. No vulgarity. No reproaches. No +questioning. Beauty. + +Well.... + +She had gone. + +These three letters, written from Belaggio. Then, no more, as it should +have been! + +“There must be some reason, my dear, for these glimpses. A divine +tantalization, perhaps. Souls led to heaven as a donkey follows a +carrot to the crest of a hill.... Some day you will love this way. +Wouldn’t it be wiser to wait? You are very like me.” + +Lilah stood up with a quick, almost violent gesture of rebellion. “No! +How can you?” + +A door opened out from the library to the veranda. Lilah threw it back +and ran outside. + +The veranda was wet, and a heavy mist poured in from the sea. Lilah +crossed the garden and hurried toward the kennels along a narrow gravel +path. The mist stung her bare arms, drenched her hair, soaked through +the thin soles of her slippers. + +Some one loomed out of the shadows and she recognized Robert, still in +his great-coat, bare-headed. + +He cried: “Lilah!” And, startled, blocked the path. + +Lilah caught his arm. “Robert. Kiss me again. Again. Make me kiss +you.... I want to! I want to! Your grandfather’s wrong. I’ll love you. +Kiss me.” + +They clung together. Her emotion, her fear, became desire. She could +not see Robert’s face; his restless hands slipped down her arms to her +waist, back again to her shoulders. She cried, pressing herself against +him: “Robert!” + +“Poor little girl. Poor little Lilah. It’s all right....” + +Her lips against his, her arms pinioned, she thought: “I love him. That +detestable old man.... This is love--_this_.” + +Aloud, she asked again: “Do you love me?” + +For answer, he lifted her clear of the ground and held her, so that she +could hear his heart and her own, beating together. + + + + +IV + + +There was no going back now, and Lilah went forward swiftly, +forgetting, in the excitement of the wedding, her hours of doubt. +She clung to the memory of that moment in the fog; it was at once a +disguise and a justification. To Junius Peabody she had said simply: “I +promise you; it will be all right.” + +She was married one morning, out-of-doors, before an altar made of +syringa bloom. For this occasion, Robert’s Aunt Whiteside came from +some Virginia spa, caparisoned, as Junius Peabody put it, like a +Christmas tree. She found Lilah a “useless ornament.” And said so in an +astonishing bass voice. + +There was nothing fashionable about this wedding. A few friendly, +rather shy and inarticulate people, appeared for the ceremony, were +introduced, and disappeared immediately. + +Lilah kissed Junius, noticed again the odor of Cologne, and was hurried +away toward the traditional honeymoon in Robert’s motor ... Portland +... Bath ... Bar Harbor.... It would soon be over and she could be +herself.... + +Six months later she was established in Thirty-eighth Street. + +A small army of decorators occupied the doorstep and besieged Lilah +by letter and telephone. And Mrs. Junius Peabody’s Victorianism was +pulled up, literally, by the roots. Gilt-framed mirrors went headlong +down the “stoop” into moving vans. Chinese porcelains and top-heavy +vases disappeared into barrels. Mantels were ripped out, parquet floors +became, in some instances, black and white tiles, in others smooth +painted surfaces. Tabourettes, gilded what-nots, ponderous buffets +vanished on the backs of moving men, and the discreet marbles and +pedestaled bronzes were banished to heaven knows what storage vault. + +“No one would _buy_ these things,” Lilah explained. “You couldn’t +_give_ them away! The Ladies’ Home Journal has changed all that. I’m +not sure whether what they’ve got is any better, but at least it’s no +worse.” + +“I liked it,” Robert said. “It was cozy.” + +Lilah sniffed. + +During the reconstruction they lived on the top floor, in rooms +occupied in Mrs. Junius Peabody’s era by servants. Lilah had painted +the furniture herself and had hung at the windows curtains of glazed +chintz--parrots, cabbage roses and gay Kundry-blooms. Robert slept in a +cottage bed beneath a quilted spread and shaved peering into a crackled +mirror. He was vaguely uncomfortable and dubious. Beneath him, the +familiar house of his childhood was disintegrating, falling to pieces. +One by one the precious familiarities disappeared. But if it pleased +Lilah, why, for God’s sake, on with the game! + +What it all meant was beyond Robert’s comprehension. His mother had +been content to spend half a lifetime with walnut and plush.... And why +all the fuss about the front door, the brownstone steps? + +“But they’re _hideous_,” Lilah cried. “_No one_ has them! Every house +on the block, except ours, has an English front.” + +Robert shrugged his shoulders, and a month later the stone façade +became a brick façade; the steps gave way to a white doorway with a +fan grill, and window boxes planted with evergreens added that touch +of a Mayfair dwelling. It was all very discreet, and, to Robert, very +startling. He could not believe his eyes. He wrote to his grandfather +that Thirty-eighth Street was “jolly giddy.” + +Lilah was supremely happy. She wore chintz aprons and bound her hair +in silk, as if she were gardening. Her eyes had a critical, appraising +look. Robert never saw her unless he pursued her to the top of a +step-ladder or forced his way through the ranks of decorators. These +people frightened him; they had such an air--as if they thought and +spoke in symbols. It was a secret order to which, apparently, Lilah had +been initiated, for she tossed off the phraseology with a reckless, and +sometimes condescending, carelessness. + +“Isn’t it too delicious? This needle-point? Miss de Blauvelt wants +brocade, but I insisted....” + +“It’s rather--pale,” Robert said lamely. + +“Nonsense. It’s exquisite.... The panels are to be painted all the way +to the ceiling. Ships and cliffs and trees and great folds of silk, +like Claude Lorraine, with steps, you know”--she made a gesture--“and +funny clouds.” + +She pulled him by the hand. “Come into the dining-room--I want you to +see something. It’s here! The Venetian glass.... Look! Look!” + +Robert said guardedly: “Purple glass? What for?” + +“For use, silly.” + +“And what are these--vegetables?” + +“For the console--they’re merely decorative.” + +“But I don’t like them!” + +“Never mind. You will, when everything is finished! An Aubusson rug. +Gray walls. A great mirror, cut in squares, here. An enameled table +with strips of old lace or brocade. Your grandfather’s Boucher here. A +screen, there. And crystal--” + +“Lilah! Lilah!” + +Robert picked his way through plaster, lathes, packing-cases and +excelsior whenever he left the house to go to the dubious comfort of +his Club. He wanted the country, his dogs, his old green sweater. But +if Lilah was happy.... + +And Lilah happy was less difficult than Lilah unhappy. At the Point, +during the summer, there had been days when she was too restive to +be quite comfortable. He was to blame for something; eventually he +discovered that he was to blame for liking the out-of-doors. The +implication was vague. Whenever Robert let himself go, Lilah would +say: “Beautiful? Yes?” As if there were some reason for resentment. +When Robert discovered that she wanted New York, and Thirty-eighth +Street, he capitulated at once. But he had faced mysterious rebuffs, +inexplicable moods, hurts that were more damnable for being beyond +analysis. He had wondered. He had questioned himself. He had, more +than once, blamed himself. For what? Why, for failing her somehow! +He hated to see that look of resentful discontent. He was ashamed of +being happy! And this was a new sensation. He had always been happy. +But he encountered the feminine rebellion against a mood which does +not exactly match her own; and at last depressed by the atmosphere of +blame, he gave way to temper, flung himself down and hid his head in +his arms. Then, Lilah had been repentant; he felt her hand on his hair. +“Robert, what’s the matter?” He had not answered. And Lilah had kissed +the back of his neck and had called him “cross old Bobsie.” + +With New York an accomplished fact, and the woods, the rocks, exchanged +for a sultry October in town, she was gracious, delightful. + +Robert promised himself that he would never again deprive Lilah of +anything. She was worthy of the most unselfish behavior.... He adored +her.... He would do anything to hear her call him “cross old Bobsie.” + +He made the mistake of becoming his most cheerful, his most optimistic +self. + + * * * * * + +The panels were to be done by an American artist, a man famous for the +facility of his execution; he painted like a fury. One day you had the +cartoons, in red chalk--a swirl of draperies, figures of long-limbed, +rather sheep-like women and top-heavy columns in the Tiepolo manner. +The next, a finished canvas. + +Robert began to stumble over this Elmer Shawhan in his comings and +goings. He had none of the trappings Robert expected of painters, but +worked in a disreputable coat, collarless. He was small and agile, +Irish, with the head of a vaudeville actor and the feet of a Brazilian +dancer. + +Lilah found him violent and amusing. + +“I despise women,” he told her, “but I can’t keep away from ’em. It’s +their drawing--ankles and knees and long arms and necks. They’re so +damned graceful.” + +He was sitting on a scaffold ten feet above her head, dangling a pair +of patent pumps and ankles encased in sheer silk socks. Lilah’s walls +were already transformed. Shawhan painted the panels in his studio and +mounted them himself. + +Lilah could not rest until she found out whether he considered her +pretty. He made her feel dumpy and too blonde, because the women he +painted were like fresh strawberries mounted on long silk legs. No +woman had legs like that.... + +“I know,” he said. “I paint legs plus the universal male exaggeration +of their importance. That’s why my stuff sells. I got seventy-five +thousand dollars for covering a millionaire’s home with silk stockings +and frillies. He thinks he likes it because it’s art.” + +“Isn’t it?” Lilah demanded. + +“My stuff? Of course not. Mister Tiepolo of New York! No, I’m clever. I +have a certain facility, that’s all. I learned to draw when I was a cub +reporter on a southern daily--I had to make quick sketches of murders, +suicides, hangings and celebrities; President Cleveland in the morning +and Lulu the opium-queen in the afternoon. I _had_ to draw! Then I came +to New York and drew New York. Slums and ‘L’ stations and bums in the +park and snow and fire-engines and horse ’buses. In those days New York +was a _place_. Twenty years ago....” + +“I was seven,” Lilah interrupted. + +“Well, I wasn’t! I was twenty-three. And what I had you’ll never have.” + +“Why?” + +“It doesn’t exist any more. You’ll never see Ethel Barrymore in +‘Captain Jinks’ with those eyes of hers and that bass voice and that +Barrymore bend. Davis was on the crest of the wave and Gibson was +immortalizing the shirtwaist. It meant something in those days to be +tailored in England and to wear the kind of shoes I wear--look at +’em--no tips--soft as a glove! Davis and I wore wing collars when +it was considered degenerate, and we carried canes in the face of +public ridicule and private envy. Stanford White was building glorious +houses. Most of us were in love with Minnie Ashley. Talk about the age +of innocence! Clyde Fitch, Maxine Elliot, Elsie de Wolfe and Clara +Bloodgood.... I could name a dozen. We were the American aristocracy of +wit. What we said and did was shocking and unique. It was worth while +being clever because almost no one was. To live in Gramercy Park, to +eat at the old Café Martin and _not_ to wear pads in your shoulders--” + +He went back to his canvas with a sort of violence. + +“I object to to-day because every one is superficially clever! And +there are ten geniuses to one, twenty years ago, men who can write +colossal novels about the war; men you’ve never heard of, like Dos +Passos, producing a sort of heroic poem, every verse beginning and +ending with Goddam! Gorgeous! And chaps like Manship and Simonson. And +Bellows. And God knows who--there are thousands of ’em.” + +“Well?” Lilah said, being very Russian with her cigarette. + +Shawhan came down the ladder. He had a most engaging and roguish smile. +With the neck of his shirt turned in, he was more Byronesque than +vaudevillian; he would have been romantic if he had not looked out at +you through eyes so initiated and so skeptical. + +“And there you are! Genius is a drug on the market.” + +“Then you’re asking too much for these panels,” Lilah said sweetly. + +“I’m a specialist,” was his shrewd reply, “not a genius. I have cashed +in on my facility. You’re paying, not for my work, but for my name. +When people come into this room, they will know who decorated your +walls and your stock will jump!” + +“How did you manage it?” Lilah asked. + +He smiled. “The New York way. A very exotic house and studio. Two +marriages with famous and temperamental women both of whom divorced +me, quite amicably. A dash of scandal. Parties every one wanted to get +to because they were both beautiful and risquè and the guests were +limited.... Thirty, no less, no more! An impassioned, and anonymous, +press agent. Kissing the finger-tips of such women as you. Getting the +reputation of being a misogynist. _And legs!_” + +Lilah laughed. “And now?” + +“You pay for it.” + +“And you?” + +“It doesn’t leave much to believe in, does it? That’s why I sneeze when +people drag in art. Art! Oh, my God. The whole thing is an elaborate +hoax. You want these walls--these lovely empty spaces--filled with +something gracious, pretty, to harmonize with your furniture and your +lamp-shades.” + +“Oh, no--” Lilah interrupted. + +“Oh, yes! I beg pardon. Yes! Your husband wouldn’t live with a wall by +Michelangelo--big, fat torsos and bumpy females and snakes. And how +would you look, in that gown, against a Gaugin jungle? Be honest.” + +“Well--” + +“You go to Miss de Blauvelt. She wants to sell you some Louis Quatre +chairs and one of those French sofas, an escritoire and a five hundred +dollar footstool. So she looks through her mental card-index and says: +‘French. Shawhan.’ Then she phones me. I get the specifications and the +limitations and the architects’ blue-prints. I go to the Palais Royal +and make sketches on the back of the menu-card. Mrs. Robert Peabody’s +Louis Quatre drawing-room for November twenty-eighth. Lots of pink. A +swing, with four Watteau ladies and satin garters, a poodle on a yellow +cushion, some fuzzy trees, a cupid on a pedestal and five hundred yards +of Alice Blue silk looped back with Fragonard tassels. One Tiepolo +column, one Boucher bosom and a knot of flowers.” + +“You’re disgusting,” Lilah said. + +“This is the Twentieth Century,” he reminded her, “and you are living +in New York.” + +He backed away from his work, twisting the ladder aside. “What do you +think of it?” + +“I like it. I believe you do. Isn’t your contempt a part of your +business manner?” + +“Don’t you see--all this is very sad?” he remarked. “What I’ve told +you--what I am and what you are, and our buying and selling this way--” +He broke off. “Yes, I like it,” he admitted. + +He stood, his hands on his hips, his head tilted, staring at the +exquisite thing he had somehow summoned out of his staleness and +disillusionment. Into his expression something mocking appeared to +contradict his absorption. + +“Some day,” he said, “I shall decorate a pork-packer’s ballroom. Two +hundred thousand down and no interference! I shall paint what I like--a +series of cartoons--sky-scrapers, flappers, head-waiters, taxicabs, +chorus girls, Jews and fashionable women, cabarets, streets, theaters +and--the whole mess! Wouldn’t it be gorgeous? A parade, all the way +around the ballroom, where my pork-packer had expected nymphs in +panniers?” + +Lilah tossed her cigarette away and yawned. “I see. You’re an artist, +after all. And a humbug.” + +He laughed, and their eyes met with appreciation. + +“Perhaps,” Lilah suggested, “you’ll put me into that cartoon.” + +His glance deepened; his expression changed; as if he sensed the trap +laid down by her, he said dryly: “Perhaps.” + + * * * * * + +Lilah told Robert that Elmer Shawhan was an egoist. + +“Probably,” Robert said. “He looks it.” + +“Why? Because he is spectacular?” + +Robert sensed opposition. “Why, yes. His hair--” + +“Externals!” Lilah cried. + +“That’s one of your phrases, Lilah. Don’t trip me unfairly. Hair _is_ +an external, but the way a man cuts it is indicative of something +internal. I suspect your artist of being what you call him, an egoist, +because he has patiently cultivated a pompadour. Now, whiskers--” + +Lilah put her fingers in her ears. + +As the house began to take form and to emerge from the chaos of +reconstruction into a very harmonious and comfortable air of +permanence, Lilah discovered that she was being too extravagant. The +bills for all this mannered luxury began to appear, statements that had +a matter-of-fact coldness, a finality. She must face, placate Robert, +make him see, as always, in smaller things, her rightness. + +Miss de Blauvelt had an exaggerated and flattering conception of +the wealth of her clients. She was accustomed to magnificence and +munificence. She spent other people’s money, Lilah discovered, with the +largest possible gesture, and then added her own fee, a compensation +out of all proportion to her services; she was “cheeky” in a way too +subtle for rebuff. + +With a graceful sweep of her hands, she would say: “I can do a +delightful boudoir for ten thousand. Not perfect, of course--for +_that_--but modern and witty, a perverse little room. Leave it to me. +You don’t mind?” + +The names of social celebrities flowed in and out of the stream of +her talk like minnows. She knew every one. Lilah gathered that at her +own house at Dinard she gathered together the froth of fashionable +and artistic Europe--skimmed off the cream for her own amusement. +With this woman, business seemed to be an excuse for indulging in +extravagances. The account, rendered before the workmen were out of the +house, staggered Lilah. She had, she realized, spent a fortune. Her +heart contracted and the blood rushed to her face, receding to leave +her trembling, frightened, sick. She had no idea how she was going to +face Robert with this fact--it was done; there was no going back. She +should have consulted him. The whole thing suggested a sort of vulgar +eagerness on her part, a head-long impatience. And she had made it +only too evident that Robert bored her. She must go back, patiently, +and try to understand herself and him, prepare him, somehow, for this +preposterous bill headed simply De Blauvelt, Interiors, Paris, New York. + +Miss de Blauvelt appeared on the following day to make what proved to +be a final inspection of her handiwork. Lilah, caught unawares, felt +at a disadvantage in the presence of this compact little cosmopolitan. +There was something decidedly challenging in the frivolity of her +beautiful feet and ankles and the whiteness of her hair. She was an +old woman sustained by the success and color of her life. Everything +had been done that could be done by science and art to preserve, make +permanent, her famous slimness, her provocative and ugly features, her +_chic_. The result was not quite human; there were no wrinkles, no +visible signs of age; in the transparent mask of her face, only her +eyes seemed to be alive, black, intelligent and cruel. She never smiled +and Lilah decided that she couldn’t; plastic surgery had deprived her +of animation. She wore a tube-like dress, short in the fashion of the +moment, a turban of dyed metallic cloth and the curious square-toed, +clumsy, strapped slippers affected by the Parisian _mondaine_. + +“Well? You like it?” she demanded. + +“Very much.” + +“You had better let me do your country place before I go back to +France.” + +Lilah said decidedly: “Thanks. No.” + +“Why not?” + +“Your bill was exorbitant.” + +Miss de Blauvelt’s eyes came around with a pounce. “Nonsense. I was +more than charitable! If you expected department store economies--” + +She broke off. “Surely, you understood--” + +“Oh, yes,” Lilah said hurriedly. “But I shan’t undertake another--not +now.” + +“You must come to Dinard,” Miss de Blauvelt said in an even voice; “I +live there with two amusing and talented women, a sculptress and a +pianiste. It’s very simple and very beautiful.” + +She made an expressive gesture. “This is my last house in America. You +may tell every one so. It will give your interior a peculiar luster and +perhaps reconcile you to the expense.” + +And with a nod, she walked quickly out, and across the pavement to her +motor. + + * * * * * + +Lilah spent the rest of the afternoon at her desk adding up a list of +bills, De Blauvelt, Shawhan, plumbers, painters, masons, upholsterers, +warehouses, rugs, electricians, florists, contractors.... + +She was interrupted by a servant, a new acquisition like everything +else, who said: “Miss Fuller” in a dubious voice as if he were weary +of ushering in tradespeople and nobodies. + +Lilah turned with relief. She hated details. She almost ran forward to +meet Grace Fuller, who came into the room unruffled and casual, as she +had entered the flat in Ninth Street. + +Lilah forgot the bills in the excitement of displaying her possessions. +And as Grace Fuller followed her from room to room she felt her +enthusiasm mounting. For the first time her dreams seemed to be +concrete, her security certain. Her feet slipped along the rugs with a +luxurious appreciation of their softness. Grace Fuller followed, saying +very little. But then she never did have any enthusiasm. She might be +regretting--poor soul! This warmth and glow, after the room in Ninth +Street, the gas-log, the oak table, the green lamp and her father’s +chair, worn hollow. + +“It’s quite like you,” Grace Fuller said. “Purry. I feel stroked +myself. Tea? By all means. I’m dog-tired.... New York all summer--heat +that withered the geraniums on the fire escape! I had to open the +dumb-waiter door for ventilation....” + +She lighted a cigarette. “How’s Robert?” + +“Awfully well.” + +Lilah busied herself with cups and saucers. She did not care to discuss +Robert. But Grace Fuller said: “He hates New York at this time of year.” + +“He has his club.” + +“Has he?” + +“Are you being disagreeable?” + +“I don’t think so. I want you to be happy, and it seems to me that you +are doing figure eights around the danger sign.... In November, the +Maine natives go down East for deer. Robert always hunts with his gang +of Perkins and Littlefields and Brewsters. Hasn’t he told you?” + +“We have been married less than six months. He wouldn’t leave me,” +Lilah said concisely. + +“He would, if you gave him the least little push! He wanted a moose +this year.” + +Abruptly, she changed the subject. She told Lilah that she was very +nearly worn out. It seemed to be her fortune to get nothing but +“hopeless cases,” invalids engaged in the long-drawn-out process of +dying by inches. She had had to witness so much poor, human suffering, +to face the mute or the querulous questions of people who “had to +know.” “The ones who suffer most are the ones who want to stay. They +seem to love life. They’re so futile, so pathetic! I’ve listened for +hours to women who could remember every detail of their girlhood--how +pretty they were, and the number of tucks on their graduation dress, +and all about their wedding day: what he said and the cinders on the +honeymoon journey, and how he took the littlest, weeniest bite out of +the lobe of her ear.... They want it all back again! I’m dog-tired, +trying to get it for them. When they die, they give me just the funny, +accusing look that boy in France gave me.” + +“Poor Grace.” + +“I’d like to nurse an alcoholic case or a pretty actress with the +mumps. Something to amuse me. I don’t understand death. I wish I did. +To put us here, to inform us that our stay is limited, to offer no +proof of immortality--it’s damnable! Animals don’t know, do they? +They’re afraid of being hurt, but do they know, when they’re old enough +to know anything, that some day, no matter how brave and quick they +are, they’ve got to give it all up?” + +Lilah twisted her shoulders. “For heaven’s sake, Grace, be cheerful.” + +“I can’t. I live in an atmosphere of dread and tip-toeing. Doctors +tip-toeing in and out. Relatives tip-toeing in and out. And the +poor creature on the bed yearning for life! I’m no good any more. A +rebellious nurse had better stop nursing. I’m going to stop, and come +back again when I have found something to offer them.” + +Lilah had been turning a new idea over in her mind. Sparring for time, +she said: “You can’t justify death, Grace.” + +“I might. I sometimes think it is more justifiable than life.” + +“Don’t be bitter.” + +“I’m not.” Grace Fuller put her tea-cup down. Her expression was +excited, she flushed and clasped her hands together as she always did +when she felt anything deeply. “It seems such a waste of power. Youth, +with all that energy. A wave of youth rising up in every generation and +spending itself against the facts of life. Why must it be? I remember, +when I was a child, how wonderful it all seemed, fields and clouds, +and wind. Even the seasons were exciting; when the first snow came, I +was in ecstasy, watching the landscape change. Something was always +waiting for me. I never knew, or cared to know what--but if I were to +open my eyes wide or stretch out my hand, there it would be--shining +and glorious, mine!” + +She relaxed and sank back, the old cynical look reappearing, as if she +had lost hope again. + +“I’m a fool. It happens to everybody.” + +Lilah turned quickly and asked: “Would you have been happier with +Robert?” + +That slow flush remounted. “No.” + +“Then I want you to do something for me. I’m swamped with details, +correspondence, bills, people I don’t want to see and people I must +see. I need some one to help me. Some one, like you, who has a good +telephone voice and decent manners. Will you try it? Please don’t say +no! I hate talking business, but I assure you you won’t lose anything. +You can rent the flat in Ninth Street and come here. Now that the +second floor is finished, you can have our quarters on the third. The +servants are on the fourth.” + +Seeing Robert in the doorway, Lilah called to him: “Hello! Just in time +for tea! Grace is going to be my secretary. Isn’t it wonderful?” + +Robert took Grace Fuller’s hand and bent down a little to smile at her. +“I’m glad,” he said. + +“Then I’ll come,” Grace Fuller answered. + +Robert sat down beside Lilah on the narrow French sofa that bulked so +conspicuously as an item in the De Blauvelt account. He seemed heavier +than usual, very pink from his walk across town in a sharp November +wind. His eyes had that untroubled expression which particularly +irritated Lilah because it was an indication of profound inner content. +She did not want him to be contented, to take for granted her love, as +if a gift so inestimable could be accepted easily. Something warned her +to keep her temper; if Grace Fuller were watching for a rift in the +lute she would be disappointed. + +She may have made a mistake in asking this waspish woman to live under +the same roof. Strangely enough, the prospect excited her. Without +Grace Fuller, there would be no rebound to life. She could fling her +challenge: “See what I am, what I have become,” at this surface, and +catch, in the deepening irony of the other, her own particular shimmer +and brilliance. Lacking Junius Peabody, who was desirable because he +enjoyed watching Lilah wrestle with destiny, Grace Fuller would be the +necessary audience. To know that she had loved Robert would make Robert +more endurable. Grace would pore over his stamp-albums and condone his +canine complex and perhaps read aloud to him the terrible books he +preferred, murder mysteries and western melodramas: “Nothing like a +crackerjack mystery, Lilah! Now this chap, Jenkins, was locked up in a +house on the Hudson and there was a sort of secret passage leading down +to the river--” + +Lilah came back with a start to the unfamiliar outlines of her +drawing-room. Robert was being very genial and talkative. His enameled +boots caught the fire-light. Lilah’s eyes rested on his hands; she +noticed for the first time the breadth and strength of his fingers, +the blond hair on the backs of his hands. Whenever she came in contact +with the physical, she felt revulsion. She would have preferred a +disembodied Robert, or no Robert at all. She turned her eyes away with +a little shiver of apprehension.... + +When Grace Fuller had gone, Lilah sat for a long time in silence. +Robert lighted a cigarette mounted in a long tortoise-shell holder +with a gold mouth-piece. One hand rested over hers. She wondered what +he was thinking, whether he liked the room, the house, this brand-new +air of expensive perfection. The sound of his breathing, heavy and +regular, was audible above the muffled rumble of traffic in the street. +A servant removed the tea things and drew the shades, kindling lights +here and there on tables and against the paneled walls. + +“Do you like it?” she said at last. + +Robert moved. His answer came with the usual slow marshaling of facts +and words: “Shall I tell you the truth? I prefer the old house at the +Point.” His hand tightened over hers; she tried to draw her fingers +away, but he held them within his. “I’ve hurt you! But you don’t want +me to be a lap-dog, do you? Must I bark every time you say: ‘Speak, +Fido’?” + +“Why didn’t you tell me so in the beginning? did you let me spend all +this money?” + +“Because I love you,” he said simply. + +“Do you?” + +“Very much.” + +Lilah hurried to the issue. “I’ve spent thousands and thousands. For +something you hate--” + +“I know very little about such matters,” he said. “I left it to you +to re-furnish the house. I expected a certain expense. Ten or twenty +thousand--” + +“I’ve spent forty thousand,” Lilah said, trying to keep her voice +steady. + +There was a short silence. Robert’s grasp relaxed and she drew her hand +away. Presently he said: “That is a great deal of money, my dear.” + +With a flash of temper she answered sharply: “Why didn’t you stop me, +then? Instead of letting me go blindly on, believing that I had your +consent? Was it a trick to trip me up?” + +“Lilah!” + +“Both you and your grandfather think I married you because I was hard +up and frightened! You’ve made me feel your suspicion. Suppose I had +really loved you--and I tried to make you see that I did--wouldn’t your +doubting me make me self-conscious?” + +“Now you’re being nasty.” + +She closed her eyes. Shivers of feeling ran through her like currents +of poison. “Nasty! What a primitive word! I’m being frank, if that’s +what you mean.” + +“I thought you _did_ love me,” Robert said. “I’m probably +old-fashioned, but I admit that I had an entirely different idea of +love. I’ve read a lot of trash and believed a lot of sentimental +idiocy, perhaps....” + +“What, exactly, did you expect?” + +He turned. “Lilah! We mustn’t talk like this!” + +She insisted: “What did you expect that I haven’t given you?” + +He made a gesture of surrender. “If I told you, you’d laugh at me.” + +“Do I laugh at you? How unfair you are! You are trying to make me out a +cheat.” + +“No. I love you. Only don’t you see--I wanted, and still want, +companionship. You rather took this house out of my hands, didn’t you? +As far as I’m concerned, it might be a hotel. Even if I have rotten +taste, I like a little of it around--in my own room, for instance. Why +not? Am I irrational?” He unclasped his hands and clasped them again +with a slow pressure that whitened his knuckles. “I wanted to plan +things--go over things with you. I didn’t want this woman to buy my +bed--it’s none of her business! I’ve always dreamed of building a home +with the woman I loved and married.... I suppose you’re laughing at me.” + +Lilah said nothing. She could not trust her voice. + +She felt that her power over him had been shattered. None of the old +tricks would do. She must find new magic, and quickly, if she wanted +him. + +“I’m not laughing at you,” she said at last. “If I’ve done wrong, I’ll +do the only thing I can do, under the circumstances; I’ll go.” + +“You mean, leave me? Lilah, you’re joking! We’re a grown man and woman +trying to understand each other. I don’t care a damn about that forty +thousand. It’s you I’ve got to get at--and I can’t buy your heart. I’m +not rich enough....” + +“That was a very pretty speech, Robert.” + +“I didn’t mean it to be. I’m in deadly earnest. I’m not contented with +myself as I am. No one is, perhaps. But my case is extreme. I’m pretty +much of a waster. I waste myself on harmless amusements, but I waste +myself. I thought--I just imagined--it was a damn foolish notion--but I +wanted you to stir me up, get me started at something, make me want to +serve, somewhere, somehow. And when you married me, you dropped me out +entirely--” he spread his hands, “for this.” + +He turned to her, his face white and strained. “There shouldn’t be much +of a toss-up between a house and a human being.” + +She did not answer, but sat with her body drawn away, her shoulders +hunched, her breath quick and shallow. Her expression was guarded +but she permitted herself a half-smile that was both patient and +contemptuous. + +“You’re so damned feminine,” he said. “My mother was like that. She’d +bang doors and sulk. And my father would rap and beg her to come out, +and she wouldn’t. Not for hours, while the rest of us went around with +lead in our hearts, feeling ashamed! When she did open the door, she’d +sort of smile. She was my mother, but I hated her when she did that....” + +“What do you want me to say?” Lilah demanded. + +“Something honest,” was his surprising answer. + +She stood up suddenly. “I won’t stand this any longer. I won’t!” + +She did not cry easily, but now she burst suddenly into a storm of +tears. The flood gates of fear and questioning broke; she was swept +away. Through it all, she was aware of the room, of her own attitude +and of Robert, frightened, aghast, repentant, trying to tear her hands +away from her face. + +“Don’t cry. Lilah, don’t cry.” + +She collapsed against him and he drew her down on his knees. His +unsteady hands caressed her hair. She felt his lips on her neck. She +drew in her breath sharply and the tears stopped; with shut eyes she +remained against his shoulder, motionless. The storm of feeling had +passed, leaving again that curious unreality. Robert was not a part of +experience; he was in her life for some purpose, to carry her forward a +little way. Without discontent there could be no advance. From him, she +would go on, perhaps to love.... But he already felt what she could not +feel, and this involved her because she had given herself. She shivered +and a deep sigh cut through her immobility. His arms tightened. He kept +on whispering, with his lips against her ear, but she heard nothing. + +She became conscious again of the large expanse of Aubusson and of +pools of light in which hot-house flowers seemed made of wax, and of +sleek surfaces, smooth contours. Her own slippers, the chiffon across +her knees, were a part of the vision. + +Robert was saying: “We mustn’t quarrel. It’s childish. I’ll do any +earthly thing for you.” + +With a quick, almost feline motion, she turned in his arms. “Here +goes,” she said to herself. + +And very deliberately, purposefully, she kissed him. + + + + +V + + +With that perilous moment bridged, Robert given again his unquestioning +security in her, Lilah began her search for experience, for +satisfaction, for a vague, undetermined happiness. She had for so many +years peered over the wall at the social garden-party, at women in +light dresses and men in polished hats, marionettes, voiceless, yet +animated, infinitely removed--she had imagined so much, given these +people a wholly romantic and unnatural luster--Now she found herself +about to drop into the garden, among them, and her eagerness took +Robert’s breath away. He told himself that he must be patient; when the +novelty had worn off, when Lilah had rubbed elbows with a world already +familiar to him, she, too, would discard it. In the meantime, he tried +to content himself with her rare impulses of affection, hasty caresses, +light kisses that stung his flesh and penetrated to his heart like +thin, precise knife-thrusts. For the most part she met him with banter +and postponement, as if she were skimming over the dark depths of life, +a vivid and elusive skater on silver skates.... + +He found himself, suddenly, a slave to hope. Some day she would skim +back to him, into the circle made by his love, his arms, and remain +there, safe. But she must first dart here and there, fearless and +foolish, enjoying herself. It became his dubious pleasure to watch, +ready to pull her out if the ice should crack. + +Robert was not exactly a fool, although he took no pains to appear +otherwise. What he had seen of the world had landed him back at the +Point again, where, he argued, all the facts of life and death, of love +and hate, were uncomplicated and recognizable. He could not see, he +told Lilah, why experience should acquire anything by multiplication. +You were born, you loved, hated and died. You could do all these +things, and get out of it what there was in it, as well in one place as +in another; nothing was gained by chasing down the horizon--once you +got there, it was the same, love and life, hate and death. He preferred +a limited existence to the accumulated sensations offered by such +cities as New York and Paris. Crowds gave him a mental indigestion. +Ideas, unless they were based on truths, caused him to suffer an +intellectual heart-burn. He was not swift enough to chase the casual +and elusive theories of most modernists, who were content with the +haphazard because no one could pause long enough to argue or to prove. + +But he was willing, after that sharp quarrel with Lilah, to experiment. + +He made a hurried trip to Maine and shamefacedly kissed his spaniels, +turning back to New York with an assumed eagerness that deceived even +himself. In the train, he left the sleeper for the smoking-car and +sat up all night trying, as he put it, to reduce Lilah to a common +denominator. The secret of her fascination lay in her swift and +inexplicable changes of mood; he waited for favors with a feverish +sort of excitement. It was probably unhealthy, bad for him to be so +buffeted about by feeling, alternately exalted to heaven and left flat, +with a sense of humiliation and shame. + +Another type of man might spare himself indignity by letting her see +a certain brutality. But Robert was not so gifted. He could only be +himself. + +For her he had abandoned his “drinkin’” and had tried desperately to +part his hair on the side. The green sweater had gone down before her +contempt. In a hundred little ways he tried to re-make, improve, the +outward man; he knew when he bored her, although he was never certain +why he bored her. His enthusiasms were as authentic as hers. But +Lilah was Lilah, and for such a woman he, any man, would attempt the +impossible. + +He had wanted a strong, sweet, fearless love, ecstasy and pride and +recognition. + +What he had was different, but he could not be sure that he had not +wanted too much. Perhaps all women were like Lilah, and tormented you, +where they should offer their breasts for you to put your head against +and rest, and rest, from life. + + * * * * * + +When Grace Fuller moved in, Robert felt more comfortable. She was a +familiar, understanding sort of woman. + +He wondered whether Lilah were justified in calling Grace a deliberate +celibate. He began to study her face, to question his knowledge of +her. She had never enjoyed kissing him, but had always pushed him +away, with an expression almost of fear in her eyes. He couldn’t say +that he had enjoyed it, either; it was too much like forcing her to +his will.... There were times, at night, when Lilah was strange and +emotional, when she pressed against him and ran her fingers up and down +the back of his neck with the caress he liked, and kissed him, quick, +almost furtive kisses; when she relaxed in his arms, suddenly, as if +she were about to surrender, and then was tense again, pushing him +away, turning her face aside.... + +He couldn’t understand. + +Grace left him alone, left his senses alone. She was a good companion +in spite of her sharp tongue. He supposed that all nurses had that same +air of watching out for you, mothering you, seeing that things were +comfortable and orderly. There was no trace in her manner or her look, +of remembering; she let him off, magnificently. He would say that for +her; she was a sport! They began again, as people who have only just +met. And all those meaningless kisses and casual, artificial embraces +were forgotten in their common passion for Lilah. + +Lilah became a bond between them. When Robert came in and Lilah was not +at home, he sought Grace and questioned her. + +Lilah was fascinating, reckless, just a little terrible and they never +tired of discussing her. She had done this, or that. This one and +that one had telephoned. She had bought a new dress or a new book. +Everything she did startled them, because, once certain of Robert, +Lilah had become more startling, more reckless and more insatiable than +ever. + +It was as if she had come into full possession of life without +questioning her right to it. She was not, as far as Robert could see, +happy, but she was, on the other hand, arrogant with fulfillment. +Because she herself had succeeded, she could not help having contempt +for people who had failed. + +This amused Robert, but it was also cause for a certain amount of +chagrin, since he saw that his position had been the lever she needed +to lift her out of obscurity. She could never have done it alone. + +But because he loved her, he did for her everything she seemed to +require. Before long, she knew every one of importance in Robert’s +world. It was a world limited by necessity to a few hundred souls. +Lilah called them Murray Hill blackbirds. They were, in fact, the old +guard, a thinned-out company of so-called Knickerbockers, New Yorkers +long enough to cherish their few square blocks of sacred soil with a +tenacity that was almost aristocratic. + +They gave Lilah critical inspection; her house was less important and +could, in its severe restraint and exact emphasis, be taken for granted. + +Flushed, beautiful, excited, Lilah received them. The sleek Aubusson +became the arena of her first social struggle. These people were +fashionable but not modish. For them, sensing their prejudices, Lilah +wore black and was over-careful of her accent. Her Russian atmosphere +was discarded for the occasion, and Robert and Grace were amazed, +embarrassed, by a totally different Lilah, a châtelaine, wistful, +eager and disarming. + +Robert was rather proud of the gathering; people like this made him +feel safer about the future; they cemented the cracks in society. He +adored dowdy wealth because it was an indication of permanence, a stand +against the upstart, ’Change. There was something plucky about foulard, +sensible shoes and elaborate whiskers in the Jazz age. While these +people lived, the last cable held. Their names were less impressive now +that their city had become unaware of them. But Lilah seemed to enjoy +juggling these rather musty titles. Robert didn’t know it, but she was, +consciously, laying a foundation down. She would stand, eventually, not +upon the quicksand of new, untried, if glamorous names, but upon the +veritable, bed-rock Manhattanese. + +Afterwards, to Grace and Robert, she was explicit: “What fearful bores! +All of them, except Mrs. Humphrey-hyphen-whatever-her-name-is.... The +red-headed one.” + +“She goes everywhere,” Robert explained, “and is invited nowhere. She +_was_ glorious, thirty years ago.” + +“She is now.” + +“She’s a bad egg,” Robert said. + +“What do you mean, exactly?” + +“Oh, she left her husband, and lived with a chap--some one--I’ve +forgotten.... She’s quite purple.” + +Lilah laughed. “I’d die if I had to know these people.... I liked your +purple one. She was human. The rest ... _blackbirds_!” + +She was being Russian again.... While the new servant, placated by the +announcement of so many celebrated blackbirds, removed the tea tables +and gathered up cups and saucers, Lilah disposed of Robert’s friends +with a tirade of pointed witticisms. She could afford to laugh at them +because now, she knew, she could subjugate them. All she had to do was +to snub the purple lady, entertain discreetly, grow old, and die. In +ten years she would look just like the rest of them--ground-grippers +and a pince-nez, a maribou boa, a bit of real lace, amethysts and +rheumatism in her finger-joints.... She preferred more difficult +attainment.... + +Suddenly she went to the piano and, still smoking, played a rakish +accompaniment to a French song. + +“_Je sais que c’est une folie!_” + +Robert and Grace Fuller turned about in their chairs and listened. She +seemed to be unaware of them. With her head thrown back, the cigarette +aslant, she sang in a light, high voice, a little song about madness +and youth and _la tendresse_ and, meltingly, _l’amour_. + + * * * * * + +From this little occasion, Lilah stepped off into New York. There were, +she discovered, no barriers raised against a pretty, witty and wealthy +woman. She had all the ingredients to make a very potent brew. + +In the beginning, Robert was always at her elbow, puzzled, but +stimulated in exact proportion to her own pleasure. New York was not +“dry” and before long Robert was drinking again with that boastful +abandonment characteristic of prohibition. Everywhere there was gin, +and according to the social scale, it was either genuine, or frankly +synthetic. Lilah drank for the first time in her life, steadily, +carelessly. She explained to Robert that there was no other way to +“fizz” at dinner or to hold off fatigue. And, happening to discover a +substantial supply of good wines and whisky in the cellar of the Murray +Hill house, she wrote to Junius Peabody and obtained his somewhat +satirical permission to uncork all but the rarest vintages. Those, +he explained, belonged to his “heirs” and were to be handed down as +historical evidence. Lilah must consider, take pity on the parched +palates of her sons.... + +Lilah tossed the letter into the fire. She did not intend that there +should be sons. She was infected by the casuistry of the age, a +total lack of interest in the coming generation. Behind men’s lives +there was no longer any sustaining idealism, any heroic faith in an +unbroken purpose. The war had severed a link in the chain of passions, +spiritual, national and racial. The day, the needs and fulfillments of +the day, sufficed. + +Robert could find nothing to refute her claim that the war had made +morality ridiculous and had stripped adolescent humanity of its +illusions. Everywhere, in both men and women, he encountered the +cynicism that goes, usually, with embittered old age, with failure and +disappointment. People were reckless because the moral skids were off; +there was a gay determination, everywhere evident, to meet disaster +as gayly as possible. But this was not heroic; it was cowardly, and +Robert found himself despising the times he lived in. + +As usual, he was not expressive. Something about his physical pinkness +and blondness, his air of being extremely well-fed and well-brushed, +held him back from complaining. Lilah might be right. Certainly, there +was no evidence of spirituality, of change. + + * * * * * + +New York was dancing-mad, in a mood essentially unlike the madness +of Nineteen-Fourteen, when blind satiety had twirled on the lid of a +seething volcano. This madness was sophisticated and purposeful. The +Argentine tango had given way to the primitive rhythms of Africa and +Maylasia, a brutal tom-toming, savagery stalking progress through a +maze of the senses. There were very few private dances. Robert could +remember the day of the cotillion leader, Ward McAllister’s reign. Now, +society patronized the commercial dance-halls or the exclusive “clubs” +given over to all-night dancing, in defiance of a closing law which +arbitrarily separated jazzing couples at one in the morning. There were +few formal occasions; hostesses relied upon haphazard dinner-parties, a +box at the theater or the opera, and the confused, prismatic, exciting +contact afterwards. + +Lilah danced beautifully, without a trace of vulgarity, but Robert +objected to the frank enticement of her gowns that displayed her flesh +to the casual observer. She answered that he belonged in the Dark Ages; +no one paid any attention to backs and arms; the sight was too usual. +Fashion had freed women because women had first freed themselves. +They were too frankly undressed to be alluring, and men ought to be +grateful; nudity rid them of obscene imaginings. + +Robert was not certain that women’s clothes were a symbol of masculine +indifference. Lilah might be right; she was infinitely more clever than +he, and besides she said things with a conviction, a finality, that +floored him. It is hard to contradict a woman you love. He had his +reservations. + +They rarely dined at home. As the winter progressed, their program +of pleasure became more complicated. The details were left to Grace +Fuller, who sat at a desk the better part of every day, answering +the telephone and attending to Lilah’s correspondence. An avalanche +of people had swept Robert’s handful of Murray Hill blackbirds out +of the picture. It had been but a step from these conservatives to +their children, the reckless generation that had outlived but had not +out-thought the war; and from them to the professionals, a little world +of hard, bright, amazingly talented modernists, racially nondescript, +intellectually polyglot, artistically indeterminate. + +Robert encountered too many enthusiasms to have much faith in a +standard of taste. A sort of united press-agentry conspired to prove +that there was an American art. Painstakingly, Robert sought what Lilah +declared already existed, and he failed to find it. He found, instead, +a horde of facile, astonishing copyists. The extremists irritated him +because they struck him as being too lazy to study. Further than that, +he refused to express himself. + +For several months he followed wherever Lilah led. Then it became +an easy matter to excuse himself. He did not dance, and the rôle of +caryatid to the striped awning at the Palais Royal was proving irksome. +Conversation, he insisted, had been annihilated by those jungle noises +produced by the saxophone, the oboe, the violin, the piano and the +bass-drum. He was not capable of feeling the necessary emotion; he +preferred staying at home to holding a half-dozen strange and hectic +women in his arms. + +“By all means, stay,” Lilah said agreeably. She kissed him on the top +of his head and went out, wrapped in a voluminous coat of gold cloth, +from which her face emerged, powdered, delicately rouged, like the face +of a bisque figurine. + +Her mistiness had taken on a certain sharp and defined quality; she +was more accentuated, less shadowy. The petulant droop of her lips +was pronounced; her eyes were larger and more brilliant--they sought +admiration frankly, if disdainfully, and gave nothing in return. + +Robert went to his easy chair with a sense of having been left flat. He +expected at least a show of protest, of regret. + +Grace Fuller was at work, in the library; he heard the click of her +typewriter. He might go to her. Damn it, why not? She might be able to +tell him what Lilah had meant when she said, “By all means, stay.” + +He climbed the stairs slowly, puffing his cigar. He was, he realized, +very tired. Pleasure exhausted him because he didn’t believe in it. To +Lilah, it had all the luster of a Cause. + +Grace Fuller glanced up. + +“Not going?” + +“Not going.” + +“Why?” + +Robert said lightly: “I’m fagged. Old age, I suppose.” + +She pushed the machine away and sat staring at him with an expression +which made him vaguely uncomfortable. + +“What did Lilah say?” + +Robert laughed: “She invited me by all means to suit myself.” + +“You made a mistake. Why didn’t you tell her how tired you are and make +her stay at home?” + +“I can’t _make_ Lilah do anything.” + +“I wouldn’t admit it, if I were you.” + +“Why not? She is undisciplined, but I would be the last one to try to +curb her.” + +“It’s too late, Robert. Lilah has taken the bit. She’s running away +from you.” + +With a pang of irritable fear, Robert said sharply: “Nonsense.” + +Grace Fuller jerked the typewriter forward again and struck at the keys +with her long, cool fingers. Her mouth had hardened; her eyes were +obstinate. “Very well,” she said. + +“See here, Grace. Don’t exaggerate! Lilah’s excited. She has never +seen life. She isn’t stale. And you and I are.... She’ll get over it. +There’s good in her.” + +“It isn’t ‘bad’ to love life,” Grace answered. “I am only suggesting +that it is bad for you.” + +“I can stand it.” + +Grace Fuller gathered together her day’s work with deliberate gestures, +sheaves of gray note-paper heavily embossed with the Thirty-eighth +Street address in the English fashion, square envelopes, checks and +receipted bills. Then she rose and stood for a moment looking down at +Robert. + +“I’m really very happy, Grace,” he said, on his guard against something +in her expression. + +“I’m awfully glad,” she said finally, “to hear that.” + +She turned to leave the room, but Robert spoke quickly: “Don’t go. I +want to talk to you....” He hesitated, and then said awkwardly, “about +yourself.” + +“Myself?” Grace Fuller hesitated, flushing. “Please don’t.” + +But she came back, and sank with a deep sigh, a sudden, almost pathetic +relaxation, into a chair before the fire. Robert had never seen her +looking so positively ugly; the guards were down; her distinction +had given way to the essential woman, a creature defeated by her own +disbelief. It was shocking, and to Robert, humiliating. He turned his +eyes away. + +“Don’t talk about me,” Grace said. “I prefer to be left in my own +Nirvana of self-forgetfulness. I have conquered ambition and regret, +and you’re sorry for me! You ought to congratulate me....” + +She caught her breath sharply. “How well that sounded! I almost +convinced myself....” She smiled crookedly at him, with a funny little +grimace. “You can’t get Nirvana without surrendering. I suppose there’s +some primal bug of hope in my system; I still cherish the unattainable. +I wish I had had the courage to fling myself away, as nuns do. What +peace! To believe ... I can’t.... Here I am, talking about myself....” + +“There ought to be some way,” Robert said, “to live in the world +and like it. I used to. At one time I had things reduced to pretty +simple terms. Lilah has shaken me out of my security. She is like a +humming-bird, or something swift and alive. You’re right--she has left +me behind! My own world is stale, and hers is beyond my comprehension. +Those darts and flights and quick stabs at things.... When a man gets +to be my age, he wants to stand on a sort of hill and look off at his +future. I’m too old to be puffing up the nether side. Frankly, I don’t +know where Lilah is leading me, or whether, if I ever over-take her, +I shall see anything beyond. Have I said too much? This isn’t in the +nature of a confession. I’m not disgruntled. Only I thought that you +might....” + +Grace interrupted: “I can’t analyze her. She dazzles me. For all I +know she is shallow water, but I am more inclined to think that she +is beyond our depth, yours and mine. We’re making rather fools of +ourselves trying to reach her and drag her up to our level into the +common light of day. I adore her. She is the only human being I’ve ever +known I could believe in, because she is absolutely honest.” + +“Then why--” Robert began. + +“Because you’ll never understand her! Dear old Robert. You’re a +brownstone-front and Lilah is an English basement. You’ve inherited all +the prejudices and social quaverings of the ’Eighties. Lilah is--I wish +there were a superlative for the word modern; would it be futurist? She +has bolted into a new generation, with all its recklessness and daring +and passion for facts. She likes things as they are, raw and naked. And +that makes her saner than you and me, and safer.” + +“I’m not sure that you’re right,” Robert said after a moment. “I think +Lilah dodges reality. And what I’m afraid of is that the facts will +spring out from ambush and hurt her terribly. I don’t want her hurt! +There’s something ... at times ... like a willful child....” His +expression changed. He became unaware of Grace Fuller’s watchfulness. +“I have failed to show her anything.” + + * * * * * + +When Lilah came in at two o’clock, she found them still together, in +the library filmed with the smoke of cigars and cigarettes and before a +fire that had burned out. + +She crossed the room swiftly, letting her gold cloak slip away from +her as the petals of a flower fold back from a slender stamen. She +was dressed in pollen yellow with amber ornaments; barbaric ear-rings +brushed her shoulders. She wore no rings, not liking them; her wedding +ring had been discarded an hour after her wedding. + +“Hello! Still awake? I thought you were sleepy, Robert! Who has a +cigarette? I came back before I wanted to because I had twinges of +conscience. I thought afterwards, that you might be ill. It was foolish +of me. I made apologies to the Sinclairs and painted a terrible +picture--Robert with a fever. They wanted me to go on to the Club, +so I went. Reluctantly! Now don’t you both feel silly? I danced with +Heifetz. He has eyes like agates set in satin cushions. He dances +divinely, but I was afraid he might scratch one of his famous hands +on this girdle of mine--the beads are so sharp. He thought me quite +Austrian, not French. He is coming here with that American violinist +who made such a hit in Rome and has married a pretty American girl +when he had a choice of titles and millions. It was really awfully +amusing. Poiret was there, looking us over. He is rather like a +Bedouin--Barker’s Constantine Madras. He thinks American women +potential; but they lack something the French have. Now you know, both +of you, that we don’t know how to wear hats; if we’re picturesque, +we’re not _chic_, and if we’re _chic_, we’re not picturesque. I’m +sick and tired of hearing about Cécile Sorel. Poiret raved, too, and +there was a little Roumanian attaché from Washington who declared +that she is the most beautiful woman in the world. I can’t see it. +She has a wonderful neck, but that mouth! And there’s nothing subtle +about flamingo-pink ostrich feathers in a Roman helmet made out of +rhinestones. Bordoni is lovelier; she has the most provocative feet +in the world. Heifetz likes olive women with eyebrows ... at least, +I think so--he danced with one and his expression was like the last +movement of Debussy’s _L’Après-Midi d’un Faune_.... Another cigarette, +Robert. Aren’t you two being rather glum? What have you been talking +about? Me, of course! I suppose you dished me up from soup to nuts. +Is there anything left of me? Do you like me? I’m a trusting soul, to +leave you together! Not a servant in sight and you two marooned in the +library, picking my mortal bones....” + +She perched on the arm of Robert’s chair and the cloak fell to the +floor. She was as alive, as vivacious, as if the night were only begun. +She had an imperishable luster, a surface brilliance that was beginning +to harden, like the skin of a pearl.... + + * * * * * + +Lilah dreaded the approach of Spring. Summer meant the Point, where she +had no one to stand between Robert and herself except Junius. There +had been no appreciable abatement of the New York season; very few +people had gone South, since all eyes were turning again toward Europe. +Lilah suggested Paris to Robert, but he was, for once, determined. He +expected her to go with him, in June, to Maine. + +Lilah had been launched with a certain momentum; now she could not +stop. She ran from one important pleasure to another. Her time was +taken up by the meaningless activities of the young married set, the +débutantes of an immediate yesterday who were now tasting freedom and +a characteristic dissipation; marriage seemed to be not a bondage but +an excuse for license; the manners, and the casual morality of these +matrons were the result, they said, of the War. Most of them had +married in a hurry, but there were no signs of leisurely repentance; +rather, divorce was spoken of across the dinner-table and accomplished +after breakfast. Speech was reckless, profane and satirical; there was +nothing left to be shocked at because everything had been said. Love +was always possible, but never probable unless tinged, at least, with +the illicit. Concessions were made to any one who had “a line,” and +lapses from social grace were condoned and even glorified. + +There was, Lilah discovered, a code, astonishing to the older +generation. But this had always been so. The difference lay, not in the +code itself, but in the mental condition that had produced it. This +generation had been hurled against the bayonets, into the mud-pits and +stench holes, the heroisms and pitiless defeats of war. Brought up to +believe in progress, in their own infallibility and triumph, they had, +in adolescence, been stripped of their most inestimable faith. It was +natural that they should scorn both their teachers and the untruth +they had been fed, as with a spoon. They made their own deductions; +impatient, ironic, and without sentiment, they raced forward. + +The men were more balanced than the women; a preponderance of +serious-minded men were intent on finding out something, no matter +what. Lilah listened to much bitter speculation. While they speculated, +they either drank or danced or, without emotion, experimented in the +flesh. + +Lilah met some strange fish. There were times when her over-stimulated +mind refused to accept impressions and she saw faces swimming, +floating, snatched away, reappearing, like the fantastic denizens of +an aquarium. The city required that a woman should appear impervious +to fatigue; Lilah fell into the luxurious habit of having her tired +face “patted” into lines of animation at so much an hour. Tilted back +in a combination barber-chair and operating table, she gave herself +up to the fingers of a beauty specialist. Lilah submitted to hours +of manipulation; her face was smothered in clay masks, packed in +ice, slapped, pinched, and stroked. These were her only moments of +relaxation. At the mercy of the expert, her body rested, her mind swam +in and out of the mazes. At her side, upon a highly antiseptic glass +table, bottles and jars contained the supposedly mysterious ingredients +of youth; Lilah believed in their advertised potency. Lulled by the +touch of soothing fingers and the odor of creams, lotions, tonics, +herbs, sachets, rouges and powders, Lilah spent hours in these brocaded +salons. Other hours, fixed appointments rigorously kept, were spent at +the hairdressers’, where, before a triple mirror, beneath a cluster +of lights, her vanity was fed by a mannered Frenchman who wielded the +Marcel irons with a sort of tenderness. Her hands, surrendered to +a pale girl in black, became smooth and pointed, tinted, polished. +She enjoyed the odor of this establishment--a combination of violet +brilliantine, singed hair and a Gallic thrift. + +Early in February her life took a strange turn. She went around a +corner into a new street. + + * * * * * + +She had been invited, significantly, without Robert. May Sinclair +thought Robert a wet-blanket and had said: “Come alone. It’s going to +be a bit wild. Robert wouldn’t understand. Give him his slippers and +leave him at home.” + +The Sinclairs lived in a Park Avenue apartment, fifteen stories above +ground. A columbarium maze of small rooms had been transformed, by a +judicious knocking out of walls, into a stately salon. Upon this lofty +shelf Mrs. Sinclair lived and entertained, in the fashion of modern New +York, any one who amused her. + +Lilah found the company already there. A man sat at the piano, +improvising. She recognized Montague Wilder and his inevitable tumbler +of whisky. He couldn’t play, he said, unless he was thoroughly drunk. +Then he played divinely. He looked up as Lilah came in and, not +pausing, called: “Lilah! Lovely Lilah! Dance for us! This is a waltz on +a poem by von Hofmanstahl. Listen! Isn’t it lovely? Dance. Something +Viennese! Cupids and garlands, hoops and little waists....” + +Lilah lifted her arms. Suddenly she felt very gay and triumphant. She +was conscious of people sitting in the shadowy corners of the room, +watching her. She began to waltz. The little square of cloth that did +for a train got between her feet and she caught it up, exposing her +ankles to the frank admiration of her audience. No one said anything. +This was the lazy after-dinner hour before vivacity had worked its way +to the surface. Later, every one would talk at once. + +Lilah said breathlessly: “Mrs. Vernon Castle!” And waltzed into the +arms of Chivers Chew, who was the only man in the room on his feet. +They whirled for a minute (Chew danced abominably) and then Lilah sat +down beside Wilder. “That was wonderful, Montague. But play something +serious. Chopin.” + +“For God’s sake, Montague, cut it out,” Chew complained. “I’m blue +enough.” + +“Use your mind,” some one advised. “You can do anything with your mind.” + +Montague Wilder improvised on the theme “Kalua.” Glittering scales +ornamented the melody; he took it by the hand and led it into the +Debussy half-tones, so that the South Sea ragtime tune became a wistful +French song, a thing of strangeness and nuance. His left hand reached +for the whisky glass without seeming to know what his right hand did, +but there was no break in the invention of technical feats. Through +this dissonance and unexpected harmony the familiar melody seemed +classical, important. “You’re wickedly clever,” Lilah said. + +“Wait until I’ve had a quart,” he answered. “I’ll play the D-flat waltz +in thirds. Rosenthal could do it, but no one else ever has.” + +“Who’s here?” Lilah asked. + +“Oh, the Heywoods. Pound, the shipbuilder. He’s middle-class English. +‘The wife’ is with him and she’s worse. Carey; the Hawaiian Carey. Miss +Wagner--pronounced with a wag. Putnam Flagg and a girl from San Diego +who writes. May has never drawn such a hand--aces and eights! Why are +_we_ here?” + +“Who is Putnam Flagg?” Lilah interrupted. + +“I don’t know.” + +“What is May going to do with us?” + +“The opera. Then back here. And then talk, until morning.” + +“Talk?” + +May Sinclair unfolded and rose from a long sofa upholstered in taupe +velvet. “Come on! ‘Butterfly’!” + +“‘Butterfly’! Good God,” Wilder groaned. + +“Let’s stay here and play, you and I,” Lilah whispered. + +“No, you don’t!” May Sinclair’s clear, high voice came between them. +“Drink that whisky, Montague, and bring Lilah! Farrar’s singing.” + +“Worse and worse,” Montague Wilder said. But he rose, and Lilah found +her wrap. + +In the elevator she brushed shoulders with a tall man who stared at +her down his nose. May Sinclair never introduced any one. This, Lilah +supposed, was Putnam Flagg. Afterwards, long afterwards, it used to +amuse her to think of their meeting in a stuffy little elevator that +slid down fifteen stories while they stared at each other. + +He had a curious, rather flat nose, eyes like an animal and the +beautifully modeled full mouth of a satyr. + +They did not speak, but Lilah thought: “I hope May will let him come +with me.” + +The Sinclair motor waited at the curb, and Lilah hung back, pretending +to adjust the collar of her wrap. She heard Mrs. Sinclair call: +“Lilah! Lilah!” With a flurry, the writer from San Diego and the +elder Carey embarked, the Englishman and his wife followed and the +attendant, closing the door of the limousine, signaled for Lilah’s +little brougham.... She was to have the tall man and Montague Wilder to +herself. + +She beckoned to them; the car slipped into the stream of downtown +traffic upon the heels of May Sinclair’s crowded chariot, and again she +became conscious of the pressure of her shoulder against his. + +“I am Mrs. Peabody,” she explained. + +“Major Flagg,” he answered briefly. + +They did not speak again until a skillful and precarious landing had +been made before the Opera. It was Montague Wilder’s monologue. He +complained on the way across town that opera in New York was debased, +a commercial side-show. There were no voices worth mentioning. No one +below the peanut heaven knew anything about music; tradition was lost +on the balance of the house, and therefore the singers played fast and +loose with the scores. He had heard a distinguished prima donna cheat +three times in one evening, substituting a b flat for a high c to the +rage and mortification of Moranzoni; but the audience was unaware, so +why bother to sing? Galli flatted to her heart’s content. Now that +Caruso was gone, there was no one. No one, that is, save Diaz, who was +permitted to sing once or twice a season--it was worth going a thousand +miles to hear him do the prologue of the “Coq d’Or” and the rag-picker +in “Louise.” + +But who could sing “Depuis le Jour” since Mary had gone to Chicago? +Jeritza would snuff out like a rocket, in two years, or less. She was +too damned Teutonic.... + +In the lobby, May Sinclair gathered her aces and eights and led them +around the red velvet corridors to her box. She was a tall, blonde, +long-waisted woman who had reduced from two hundred to one hundred and +thirty-five pounds in less than a year and had had a sort of personal +renaissance, a rebirth. From a fat placidity, a dowdy gentleness, she +had entered upon a willowy emotionalism; she was enormously interested +in what she had, for years, surrendered because of her sense of the +fitness of things. She was experimenting; it was no longer ridiculous +to experiment. She was forty but she was not fat. + +Butterfly’s relatives were retreating before a matter-of-fact +Pinkerton, sung by Martinelli. Farrar, in a nasturtium-red kimono with +a metallic obi, her blue-black hair a pinwheel of lacquered ornaments, +crouched before an artificial cherry tree in the fullness of unnatural +blossoming. Lilah saw the stage, a pool of light, and the two small +gesticulating figures, across the shoulders of Mrs. Sinclair and the +writer from San Diego. That music, melting, propitiating, assailed her, +like a personal appeal. _Bimba, dagli occhi pieni di malia--_ + +If Martinelli would only cut his hair.... + +The house was not crowded, but, as always, the boxes made a show--poor +relatives of the holders, or relatives of the poor relatives, or music +teachers, or God knows who.... Lilah had not heard “Butterfly” often +enough to be bored. But Montague Wilder had curled up in the ante-room +and had gone sound asleep. + +Suddenly Lilah’s eyes turned to Major Flagg. She had wanted him to be +watching her, and he was. Their eyes held. It was a game. His eyes +were unwavering and yet something kept flickering in them; it was as +if a shutter opened and closed. Whenever she was about to leap into +his eyes, he shut her out. More than anything she had ever wanted, she +wanted to get by that barrier, whatever it was, into his eyes. Once +inside, she could conquer him, but never so long as he kept her out. + +She had not spoken to him except to say that she was Mrs. Peabody and +to receive his polite but noncommittal answer. + +He was winning the game.... + +Lilah shrugged her shoulders and turned back to the stage, where +Pinkerton, feeling carefully behind him for the steps, drew Butterfly +into the _dolce dimora_. Farrar, abandoned, Carmen in a kimono, swayed +forward, lost in ecstasy; her feet, in gold lacquer sandals, mounted +the steps, slowly, slowly, as her head tilted back to that kiss on the +threshold.... + +“Oh, God,” Montague Wilder said, sitting up, disheveled and sleepy. +“Puccini! Lilah--let’s go back and drink more of May’s Scotch.” + +She shook her head. + +It was no use pretending they had not looked at each other like that. + +In the corridor, pacing up and down with Mrs. Sinclair, who couldn’t +find any one to smile at because it was a parade of “loans,” Lilah +heard in snatches that Putnam Flagg was “queer,” that he had “ideas.” +He had been gassed and had a bad heart. It made Mrs. Sinclair jumpy +because at any moment he might faint. + +“Talk to him, Lilah, I can’t.” Mrs. Sinclair caught sight of old +“Rosie” Jackson and shed Lilah. + +Lilah found herself at Flagg’s side. He was too tall. She felt little +and silly. But more than that she was excited, a dangerous, unfamiliar +excitement. She could not explain it, then, or later. He spoke of the +opera. He liked it. He liked Farrar. “Because she is alive. A woman +like that....” + +“Well?” + +“Magnificent! Not quite feminine.” + +“Do you know her?” + +“No. I shouldn’t want to.” + +“Why?” + +“I hate finding sawdust in dolls.” + +“Perhaps you wouldn’t.” + +“I might.” He smiled down at her. “And then I’d have one less +enthusiasm. I can’t do with too few! It’s lonely enough as it is. Rows +of ’em, prone, with the sawdust spilling out of their heads! Leave me +Farrar, please.” + +After a moment he said: “This is the first opera I’ve heard in five +years. I’ve been in New Mexico for two years. Before that, in France, I +didn’t care to go. I hope Mrs. Sinclair won’t leave early. I want to be +in at the death.” + +“Montague Wilder would consider you very unsophisticated. He laughs at +Puccini, or, as you know, he goes to sleep.” + +Flagg seemed for a moment to consider. “I don’t dare to laugh at +things,” he said presently. “It’s dangerous. You begin by laughing at +your pet little detestations and you wind up by losing your big faiths. +It doesn’t pay to be too fastidious.” + +“Doesn’t it?” Lilah said lightly. + +He shut her out again. As if embarrassed by having made a confidence, +he turned his head away. People were staring at them and Lilah wondered +whether she had been recognized. Her photograph, taken by a flattering +man of title against a background of Florentine brocade, had been +published broadcast in those magazines whose business it is to foster +the idea that an American society really exists. Lilah had discovered +that it is not altogether easy to get yourself advertised, even though +you happened to be Mrs. Robert Peabody. But she had taken this hurdle, +as she took all of them, with alacrity, and it was therefore not +improbable that this strolling crowd stared at her for the reason that +the American crowd loves its celebrity as the Englishman loves his +duke. Ordinarily, she would have been content to enjoy the flattery +implied by this attention alone, but to-night her pleasure was doubled +because she particularly wanted this man to be aware of her. He could +scarcely be unaware that she was attracting attention. + +At the box door, Mrs. Sinclair waited with the air of being about to +sweep them into a net. “We’re going on to the Rendezvous after the +second act. Montague’s fearfully bored and Carey has a Gilda Gray +complex. I hope you won’t mind, you two.” + +Flagg made a polite if not enthusiastic gesture and Lilah, catching his +eyes deliberately, permitted her own to say: “I’m sorry, for your sake.” + +As they entered the box, he remarked simply: “I have a rotten heart and +can’t dance.... Who is Gilda Gray?” + +“She is a lovely, initiated, transplanted savage,” Lilah explained, +“who dances the hula-hula on Forty-fourth Street.” + +Again their eyes held. The lights dimmed; with a sigh, a rustle, the +great audience faced again the glowing proscenium. Lilah had a curious +sensation of being isolated, alone, in a crowded emptiness, with this +man. Life, for the moment, was immeasurably suspended. There was a +dignity, a beauty about the impending, the imminent disaster. She would +love this man. She could not help herself. She paused, amazed, before +the strangeness and the splendor of that recognition. The moment +prolonged itself, until, in the fixed and intense meeting of their +eyes there was mutual declaration. It seemed that they must sit thus, +strangers, in a shadowy balcony above a pool of music, forever.... + + + + +VI + + +When Lilah returned to the Thirty-eighth Street house, late that night, +it was her inclination to avoid any encounter with Robert. She hoped +that he had fallen asleep. Dismissing the servant, Lilah entered the +electric elevator, another of De Blauvelt’s innovations, and got out on +the second floor. The door was noisy and as she turned toward her room +she saw a light flash on in Robert’s room across the hall. He called: +“Lilah?” + +“Yes,” she said, and paused, holding her breath. She ought to go in. +But she could not. She felt that her excitement had written itself on +her face and she hated to invent reasons for that animation. She wanted +most of all to be alone and to see herself, clearly, before she went +further. Robert might surprise her into saying something before she was +ready. + +“I’m tired,” she called out. “Good night!” + +She locked herself into her room, suddenly determined to have her +way. She must deal with this new feeling before anything happened to +diminish it, to mar its shining beauty. Robert expected to be kissed; +it was a part of the utterly stupid and peremptory rite of marriage, +devoid of spontaneous affection or of that emotion which is led up to, +prepared, by word and touch. Why did he insist, when he knew that it +was a conventional gesture and could lead to nothing, create nothing, +change nothing? She heard his hand sliding over the panels of the door, +and again he called: “Lilah?” + +She saw herself reflected in all the mirrors in an attitude of disgust +and rebellion and she was struck by her loneliness. No one could help +her. This was a primitive feeling, so powerful that it was all she +could do not to hurl her dismissal at the closed door. What, in a man +she loved, would have been lovable, in Robert was revolting. + +“Go away,” she said in a low voice. + +At once he was silent, as if she had struck him dead. She listened for +the sound of his retreating footsteps, but she could hear nothing. He +must have gone swiftly, silently; or else was still standing there, his +hand suspended, his gesture arrested by something final in her voice. + +She spoke again: “I’m very tired.” + +There was no answer. And slowly she undressed, trembling as if there +had been an actual disaster. + +She slipped into bed and switched off the light. The silence of the +room was permeated by a low and continuous sound, a distant mingling of +voices, victorious, hopeless, a vast, removed dissonance.... The city. + +She got up again and kneeled by an open window. There, the sound took +form, was less terrifying. The street, beneath a moon at the full, +was empty, like a street in a nightmare. Office buildings were like +pyramids in a forest of pyramids, inscrutable, lifeless. And one +tower, higher than the rest, was pierced by a loggia, rimmed with +moonlight, romantic. + +She tried to piece together the fragmentary happenings of that +evening. The idea came to her that perhaps she had over-estimated +Flagg’s interest; her own had been immediate, sharp, an emotion more +penetrating than anything she had experienced. The meeting had upset +her whole philosophy of conduct; she had thought herself safe within +the defined circle of her material desires; her inner self, what +idealists were pleased to call her soul, she had believed secure +against temptation; beauty, in things, was to have been enough. And now +she saw, dimly, that she had stepped outside the circle into a strange +territory where beauty, to be beauty at all, must be of the spirit. + +She recalled their silence in the motor, the brief contact of +shoulders, an ostentatious indifference when, seated at the Rendezvous, +their interest had either to disguise itself or be subjected to remark. +Flagg had not danced, but Lilah did, because it was expected of her. +The writer from San Diego claimed Flagg. She was witty and tangibly +human, a woman, Lilah decided, in daylight. Broad of feature, with +a tanned skin and careless braids of thick brown hair, she had an +enviable indifference to what men thought of her which assured her +their instant, delighted attention. Whenever Flagg laughed Lilah’s +heart contracted with something like hate. She had thought herself +incapable of jealousy. What she felt was worse than jealousy; it was a +primitive, an atrocious suffering. She had gone on dancing, smiling, +but her eyes had sought Flagg again and again, had sought, across +the crowded room blue with smoke and dust, confirmation of something +she had only glimpsed and might have imagined--his head, the short, +smooth hair, his features, his expression of humorous, sensitive +understanding. He leaned a little sideways, to catch the ironic +comments of the sun-burned lady from San Diego, but his eyes never +failed to meet Lilah’s, to let her in a little way and then, abruptly, +to shut her out.... + +Once, she had found herself alone at the table with him. + +“You have shown yourself to me,” he said abruptly in a lowered voice, +staring away from her at the crowd. “Perhaps because of something in +me or because of something that has happened to make you careless. No. +Don’t interrupt. You are right. We are not alike but we are different +enough to be dangerous to each other. I am going to be frank with you. +Nothing could have flattered me more than your being aware of me, for +now I know that something I thought had died in me is still alive. But +I can’t be what you might want me to be. I can’t play any game but my +own. You see, I have chosen to stay alive at the expense of my old +enthusiasms--and failings. I have only a margin of life. Like that chap +of Conrad’s, I have an enemy in my breast. I must be watchful and I +must feel nothing. And here you are, commanding me to feel. I haven’t +any existence of my own. I am dedicated to my unstable heart, fending +off reality to spare myself a damnable pain that makes me red in the +face, sick, unconscious.... I haven’t any life of my own. I am as dead +as dust. I am a man who buys life, day by day, simply by sparing his +heart.... Love is selfish.... If I love you, it will be selfishly. I +warn you. I have no desire to play the game of hide-and-seek, to dodge +jealous husbands. I haven’t anything to offer you--either money or +feeling or security.” + +Lilah had said quickly: “Thank you! You are very explicit.” + +A momentary fear passed to leave her trembling. She realized that while +he was speaking she had lost all sense of the crowding dancers, the +barbaric throb of the music, their publicity. She put up her hand to +hide what she knew must be an expression of utter rage. + +“Even to-day,” she began, in an unsteady voice, “when anything is +permitted--you dare--I don’t understand--” + +Suddenly he turned and looked at her. “Even to-day preliminary +skirmishes are ridiculous. I beg your pardon. I took it for granted +that you were experienced enough to hear the truth.” + +They were interrupted by Chivers Chew who bore Lilah away without +the formality of an apology to Flagg; he rose and let Lilah go with +the conventional reluctance. In Chew’s arms, held too close, Lilah +suffered panic. She had no idea what Flagg had meant; whether he had +laughed at her or whether, without question, he wanted her. Whatever +he had intended, one thing was certain, the feeling she had wanted +to avoid was being thrust upon her. The immediate future held a great +selfishness or a great daring. This feeling was bound to assert itself +or destroy her. She could not be certain that it was, in the romantic +sense, love. + +She could not, even now, be certain; kneeling in the open window with +her blank gaze on the city, she wondered.... + +They had not spoken again. She might not see him, ever. But that was +impossible! She had left the party, at one o’clock, to come home alone. +Her coming had been in the nature of a flight, an escape from an +intangible danger, a fatal, desirable, disastrous happiness.... + +She rose, with a sudden impulse to go back.... They would be at May +Sinclair’s apartment, talking, drinking, until dawn.... + +She switched on the electric light again. Her cloak lay across a chair. +She threw it over her shoulders, thrust her bare feet into the slippers +that lay where she had kicked them off and opened the door. + +Robert was standing outside, his face curiously puckered. “Where on +earth are you going?” he demanded. + +Lilah said furiously: “Why on earth are you listening at my door?” + +“I wasn’t listening.” + +He lifted his arms. “I forgot. You spoke to me.... I was waiting.... +Well, by God, I was a fool!” + +Lilah closed the door. Her teeth were chattering. She flung the wrap +aside. “Go away. Go away,” she said. “Go away.” + + * * * * * + +It seemed of sudden, vital importance that she should be happy. Since +there was no certain immortality, temporal happiness was necessary at +any cost. She had been cheated because she did not love; but Robert had +loved her, still loved her. He had failed because he had not fulfilled +the promise of that moment in the fog. He was like all prosaic lovers; +he had thought of nothing better to say than: “Poor Lilah! Poor little +girl.” She had always despised pity. She denied all the feminine +attributes other women used as defensive weapons. She preferred +admiration to sympathy; and in this she was unusual; most women like to +cry against a masculine shoulder. Lilah wanted the fullness of success, +recognition of her strength. + +She went to the telephone and in a cautious voice gave Mrs. Sinclair’s +number. + +“Lilah!” The high, clear tones came into the receiver against a +confused background of music and voices. “I thought you found us dull!” + +“May I come back?” + +“Now?” Then, with a burst of amused laughter: “Of course! Come.” + +Lilah called a taxi and dressed hurriedly. From her window she saw the +car slip down the hill from Madison Avenue and the driver, jumping out, +glanced up.... He mustn’t ring! Mustn’t! + +She flew downstairs. Robert’s door was closed. If he heard, he made no +attempt, this time, to stop her. The house was dimly lighted, muffled, +close; there was an unreality about the formal arrangement of chairs, +the stiff, precise folds of curtains and draperies, as if no one had +ever lived in these rooms or passed up and down the stairs.... The +thought crossed Lilah’s mind that she had, after all, failed to create +a livable home. Her heart hadn’t been in it.... + +She made violent signals to the chauffeur of the taxi: “_Don’t ring!_ +Here I am! Take me to four-seventy Park.” + +The man gave her a curious look as he shut the door. Then she realized +that it was three o’clock. + + * * * * * + +Mrs. Sinclair’s party was still in progress. The formal luxury of +the room had been put askew. Wilder was at the piano. Carey sat +cross-legged on a table, singing Hawaiian ditties in a soft, saccharine +voice. With shut eyes and upcurling lips, he was like an elderly Buddha +in a dinner-jacket. + +Lilah saw immediately that Flagg was there and her heart leaped, but +she said, smiling at him: “I’m not a bit of a coward. I came back to +apologize.” + +They sat down together, unexpectedly embarrassed. It was not possible +to fence effectively before a roomful of people. But Lilah felt that +she had committed herself. She studied his face, his well-modeled +hands. He was harder, more mature than Robert; the nature of his +aloofness was not clear to her. Either he was cruel, or he was +removed, by the nature of his experience, from ordinary behavior. +He said nothing but sat with his eyes on the fire which had burned +low in a shallow hearth of yellow and black marble. May Sinclair was +flirting, in her intense, experimental fashion, with Chivers Chew. The +shipbuilding Englishman and his wife had disappeared. Nearby, stretched +at full length with her head in Heywood’s lap, the writer from San +Diego was explaining the hows and the whys of the short-story game: + +“It’s perfectly easy. Any boob can do it. All you have to know is human +nature and God knows human nature doesn’t cringe from publicity, these +days! All of us skin our souls in public. I’m successful because I +skin mine a little closer. I give the public naked hearts, as you hand +around olives at a picnic--on a pickle fork! People are sick and tired +of flappers. They want ‘strong stuff,’ be it pseudo or not; heroic love +and sacrifice. Divorce has lost its novelty. I’ve been writing the most +exalted morality-tales.... You’ll see--in another year skirts will go +down and manners will go up. It isn’t going to be fashionable to lie +with your head on a strange gentleman’s bony knee--” + +“Then why do you do it?” Heywood demanded, not stirring. + +“Because it’s quite roguish in San Diego.” + +“San Diego--where on earth is San Diego?” + +Lilah turned to Flagg. He smiled. “What a lot of rubbish! Why do people +generalize about taste and morals? To-day, when propriety is a vice in +New York, a cigarette is immoral in San Diego. And if skirts go down +in New York, they’ll go up in San Diego, because San Diego is always +two years behind--and what does that prove?” + +He leaned forward, lowered his voice: “Is it decided, then? Are we to +go on?” + +Lilah said simply: “Yes.” + +She rose, tossing her cigarette away. She was languid again; her eyes +drooped. She brushed against him, but he sat, immovable, his expression +guarded. + + * * * * * + +“May,” she said, “I don’t like your party. I’m going home.” + +“Have a drink,” was the succinct reply. + +Lilah’s hostess did not trouble to rise. And Chivers Chew, peering +over the back of the sofa with a blurred expression said: “Don’t be +a grouch, Lilah! We’re all danced out. Listen to Carey. He’s on the +fiftieth verse of the Hawaiian poem in praise of the first Missionary +Carey, who had fifteen wives and sixty-two sons. Tune in--there’s a +good girl.” + +Flagg followed Lilah into the corridor. His offer to accompany her was, +in its tempered formality, old-fashioned. She could not understand +just wherein he differed from the men she knew; he was more bold, more +direct than they, but he seemed devoid of the fashionable carelessness +which made them, very often, insulting. The women were responsible for +most of it--they let themselves be slapped on the back and addressed as +“old girl.” + +As they stepped into the elevator they heard Montague Wilder entering +upon the D-flat waltz, in thirds. + +“The stale hour,” Flagg remarked, as they waited on the curb for a +night-prowler. With his cane he signalled a skulking vehicle that +turned out of a side-street. A sharp, cool wind whipped Lilah’s cloak; +the sky was already pale with dawn. But the streets were deserted; in +pools of light cast by the tall, globed arcs, an occasional figure was +visible, unreal, moving upon strange errands; cars passed, rarely, with +a smooth purring of tires, bearing shadowy, drooping women, and men in +the attitude of relaxed satiety. + +Flagg did not speak, and Lilah became conscious of his unswerving +regard. + +“I don’t understand what’s happened,” she said unsteadily. “I am not +willing--I want happiness. But I can’t hurt, too much, some one who has +been kind to me. I’m selfish. You’ll see. I want--things. But this is +new. I don’t know. I’m frightened.” + +“Don’t be,” he said. + +He continued to stare at her. He seemed to be dreaming, sunk in a +reverie. Lilah’s fear deepened. If he had touched her, or had spoken, +she would have thrust him aside with all of her accustomed scorn and +impatience. But there was something in his silence that was devotional, +innocent, almost immaterial. She recognized that he was above self, +absorbed in her.... With a shiver, she recalled Robert, at her door.... + +The taxi swerved and stopped before the Thirty-eighth Street house. + +Lilah gave her hand into Flagg’s clasp and as they looked again at each +other her lips trembled. She heard herself asking him to come, as soon +as possible; then, conscious of a too apparent eagerness, she added: +“Thursday. I’m fearfully busy.” + +“To-morrow.” + +“No. No. I can’t. Give me a day or two. Thursday, at four.” + + * * * * * + +At breakfast, Lilah said sweetly: “Was I cross last night? I’m sorry.” + +Robert lowered the newspaper. His answer surprised her, but she did not +alter her smile that had in it a touch of malice. “Cross? No. Why?” + +“I thought perhaps--” + +“I’m going to the Point,” he interrupted. “My grandfather isn’t well.” + +“Oh, Robert--” + +“It’s not serious,” he said. And added, with no apparent irony: “I’ll +come back!” + +Lilah lowered her eyes to hide her expression. This little +circumstance, unlooked for, outside her volition or her intention, was +a part of her unfailing luck. In every circumstance, she was triumphant. + +“I’m terribly sorry,” she began. + +“He has a cold. Damned nuisance! Old men shouldn’t have colds. He might +die. I’m fond of him. And besides, he holds the business together. An +enormous amount of correspondence goes to the Point. In the end, he +makes all the important decisions, defines policies--his preferences +are respected. If he should die, I would have to take his place. But +there are other reasons why I don’t want him to die.” + +“Shall I go?” Lilah asked. “I will. But wouldn’t Grace be more useful?” + +“He doesn’t need a nurse. He’s lonely. If you will come with me, and +wear your prettiest dresses and perhaps play poker with him--he will +get well. Old people sometimes die because they are ignored. They +live alone until they lose the sense of their own reality; they sort +of--vanish.” + +Lilah said briefly: “Let me see his letter.” + +Junius Peabody’s fine, careful writing with the curious, looped s’s +covered half a sheet of stationery. He said simply that he would be +glad of company since he was confined to his bed and feverish. “They +won’t let me up, confound them!” + +“He’s not very ill,” Lilah remarked. “You go, and if I’m really needed, +wire me.” She added: “You’ll be happy, because you love the country. +And I have a great deal to do. Oh, unimportant things! But if I’m to go +away in June, I won’t have more than just enough time to get ready.” + +When Robert said: “Very well,” she had the feeling that she was safe. +The immediate future held, not the necessity for speaking a dangerous +truth, but an adventure, delectable, mysterious, exciting. + +Suddenly gracious, she gave her hand to Robert. “I’ll miss you, cross +old Bobsie,” she said sweetly. + + * * * * * + +The next two weeks were as exciting as she could have wished. + +She heard from Robert that his grandfather was better but that the +spaniel had canker of the ear. “It’s terrible. She moans like a human +being and shakes her head and tries to get her hind foot into her ear. +The vet came--that old fellow from Biddeford--and operated. Last night +I sat up until four o’clock putting ice on her nose and pouring stuff +into her ear. She wouldn’t sleep and kept looking at me. I’ve been away +too long. Edwin shut her head in a door because she wanted to get into +the warm kitchen and lie under the stove. My God, why can’t people +understand that animals are human? I’ll never like Edwin again. It +makes me sick to look at him. If I had a son, I’d act this way, only +worse. The silver bitch is the only son I’ve ever had.... I’ve been +thinking over you and me. I have failed with you and I don’t know why. +No one could love you more than I do. But I suffer in my love, and that +isn’t right--love ought not to betray, but it seems to. Will you help +me? Perhaps you know what I mean. If we had a son, there would be no +complications. Last night when I sat there giving that pup pieces of +ice that melted as if I’d put them on a red-hot stove, I saw a good +many things clearly. The ice ran over my hand and up my arm and ruined +my shirt, and at the risk of your hating me I’ll tell you that I cried +like a baby and my tears ruined my tie. When I got through I looked +like the sole survivor of the Flood. (You write Biblical words with +capitals, don’t you?) And, as I was saying, certain things were sort of +washed clean or clear, or both. If I could only put my thoughts down +on paper so that you would understand! I know that if I could explain +myself to you, you’d come, quick! Love shouldn’t be a sacrifice; it +should be a service. That goes down easily on paper, but it took hours +to bubble up out of my unconscious. And another thing, it doesn’t pay +to go running around looking for new material to work with. What you +have at hand is usually workable, if you are patient enough. Success +is, after all, making what you have into a decent sort of achievement. +The people who fail are the ones who kick about never having had a +chance. We all have a chance. I could be specific, only I won’t. I am +offering myself to you as a lump of clay for your fashioning. You might +make something of me--the life-size statue of a happy man. Isn’t it +worth trying?” + +Lilah did not know what to answer; she postponed answering, and, after +a while, forgot. The issue was not pressing. To placate Robert, she +sent a wire: “Love to you both. Lilah.” + +These two weeks were exclusively her own. She did not want to +serve love or to use the material at hand. She hated smug, decent, +stereotyped domesticity. Other women could spend year after year with +the details of a home and children; it was unthinkable that she should +surrender to monotony. She must live to the full; she was willing, +she assured herself, to take both the reward and the punishment. The +penalty, however, was too remote to be considered. + +Putnam Flagg had been a professor before he became a major. He +preferred the first title to the second, since he declared that he was +not, by nature, a soldier. He disapproved of the advantage offered +by rank and insignia to men who might be disposed to bully their +inferiors, but he approved of awards that carried with them nothing +but recognition of work well done. As a teacher and a scientist, +he had known abstract adventure; no war could equal the hazards of +research. Yet his ability had forced him into the most terrible branch +of warfare and, as an expert in the use of poison-gas, he had had a +dose of his own medicine. This struck him as an altogether exquisite +justice; he had been an unwilling but an intelligent servant of his +country--once convinced of his duty he had used all of his knowledge, +and had, temporarily, laid aside his scruples. He despised war, but he +also despised despotism. He was one of the few thinkers whose faith +had not been shaken by the tragedy; rather, he emerged from it with +an even deeper belief in man’s progress. Flagg was convinced that +society had gone too far to turn back; surrender, discouragement, meant +annihilation; the battle must be fought to the end. + +He did not shrink from facts; he believed that the esthetic imagination +would be supplanted by the scientific imagination. There was no limit +to the audacity of man; no limit to what he might dare, what he might +do.... + +Flagg was to go back to his university in the Autumn. Lilah got a +very definite picture of a small city, a group of Gothic buildings +unhallowed by age, the plain, a wide river, brown polished, slow and +resistless.... Flagg would have a house “on the campus” and a small +laboratory of his own. Three times a week, in a Gothic room, before +an un-Gothic audience of farmers’ sons and business men in embryo, +he would lecture. His “subject” he told her, was zoölogy. Lilah +shuddered. She could not understand Mendelian heredity, but she had +understood what Junius Peabody said about the adult being in some +manner contained within the germ. She could not see what was gained, +exactly, by knowing.... In the end, you always stumbled upon God, and +the inscrutable beginnings. + +“We must make certain,” Flagg said, “that there is not a God beyond +God. Perhaps our conception is childish.” + +Lilah put her hand over his mouth. “Let’s not talk about it. I’m more +interested in your college, your guinea pigs and rabbits and test +tubes.” + +His smile was mocking. “Guinea pigs and God,” he remarked. Suddenly +he caught her hands. “I think I love you because you are beautiful. +There’s nothing else to love! Yet I love you! Do you care? Or are you +playing with me?” + +Lilah had not, so far, committed herself. They were spending an hour +before her fire, sharing the French sofa that had been too small for +Robert. Flagg’s touch frightened her. + +She had been so happy. A week had passed like a day; it had contained +the essence of experience. If she let herself love, she must face exile +in a western university town--but that was impossible; Flagg would not +be spared because he happened to be an unusual and valuable man. She +would have to wait, and divorce Robert. She saw a year, two years, of +postponement, poverty again, criticism, ugliness, the battle to justify +passion. If she did not love, there was Robert, and this, and this--A +house! Or Flagg might die.... + +Her hands trembled in his, but she was obstinately silent. Outside, a +heavy rain fell, obliterating, for the moment, the rumble of traffic in +Madison Avenue. A servant, or Grace Fuller, might come in and find her +hands in this man’s hands, her face, with a look of lost desire, turned +up to his.... If she kissed him, she knew, she would be powerless +to turn back to the facile little enthusiasms of her life. If she +didn’t kiss him, she would be safe, forever, in her rooms frescoed by +Shawhan and decorated by De Blauvelt, in her chosen interests, in the +perfunctory embraces of her marriage. + +On the other hand, there was happiness. Happiness, at that moment, +seemed terrible, a dark undertaking, something forbidden and murderous. +It involved Robert. The intensity of that moment in the fog, when she +had promised Robert love, was nothing more than a betrayal. She must +not promise again, and fail. + +Somehow this feeling was different. She was swayed by more than her own +part in the drama; for once she turned out from herself toward another +human being. Pity had no part in her love for Flagg; his affliction +was not evident; she had learned to accept his guarded manner as part +of his personality. His appearance--that length and leanness and the +pagan outlines of his face--stirred her. His eyes were brown, without +sparkle, lifted, under heavy lids, like the eyes of a cat. “You belong +in mythology,” she said. He was not ready to her hand; she felt always +that he might turn suddenly, with a feline indifference, and walk away +from her. He seemed always to be amused by her artificialities, yet +delighted, as if he had come upon an unusually winning little mouse. + +She wanted to hate him, because it would be more comfortable to hate +than to love him. Without quite knowing what she did, but staring +straight into his eyes with a look full of questioning, she leaned +forward until their lips met. + +He whispered: “Lilah!” and caught her close to him. When she heard +his heart beating, she realized what she had done. She could not +draw away.... This was the reality of giving. She must keep it.... +How beautiful! How final! She could not turn back, undo what she had +done, or cease to feel what she was feeling.... Helpless, she leaned +against him, hardly conscious of his lips on her forehead, her hair. +He kept on whispering: “Lilah! Lilah!” She had not expected him to be +so gentle. When finally she opened her eyes and pushed him away, she +saw that he was suffering. His face was flushed, transformed, made +ugly and pathetic by pain. The feeling of death was there, tangible, +sickening.... His eyes were wide open, and in them an expression of +surprise deepened into horror. + +Lilah cried: “Your heart!” + +He nodded and, loosening the grasp of her hands, tried to stand up. + +“Don’t! Stay where you are. I’ll get help....” + +He said in a surprisingly loud voice: “No! I’ll be all right. Wait....” + +His struggle was short and sharp. He seemed to be trying, over and +over again, to start the interrupted action of his heart. With every +failure, fear and amazement made more horrible the expression of his +wide-open eyes. Lilah watched. Once she cried out: “You mustn’t! For +my sake!” Flagg tried to smile, to reassure her. He seemed to be +listening. And the blood left his face, drained out, like a tide. His +flesh was blue-white, livid. The physical agony seemed to waste him. +Soon, Lilah thought, he would fall out of her arms. But he held himself +upright with an effort, meeting the enemy again and again, and it was +as if he held himself precariously on the rim of space. + +Suddenly, for no appreciable reason, it was over. He slipped sideways, +back upon the sofa, and his eyes closed. “I’m all right.... Only +sorry.... Perhaps you know, now, how I love you....” + +A servant was coming into the room. With a wrenching effort, Lilah +steadied her voice and said: “What time is it?” + +“Six o’clock, madam.” + +“Is Miss Fuller in the library?” + +“Yes, madam.” + +“Ask her to come here.” + +Grace Fuller came at once. Between them, they made Flagg comfortable; +he lay with his arm under his head, apparently asleep. With deft, +impersonal touches, Grace Fuller ascertained his pulse, wiped off his +forehead, which was drenched with sweat, gave him water. She said +nothing. Lilah did not meet her eyes. Her own feelings were confused; +now that Flagg was safe, she could sense to the full her triumph; but +how fragile a thing happiness had become--it depended on this man’s +living! And it was doubtful whether he could resist the fatal pressure +of the inevitable emotion. He lay exhausted, pallid, one hand hanging +limply with fingers that brushed the floor. + +Lilah turned her face away, afraid that Grace Fuller might see her +expression, the mingling of pity and glory, of fear and expectancy. + +“Is he all right? Will he die?” + +“No,” Grace Fuller said. + +At that, Flagg opened his eyes. “Die? Of course not! This happens very +often. I shall be all right in half a second. I’m sorry and ashamed. +Your kindness....” + +He sat up. + +Lilah’s gesture toward him was immediate; before she tempered its +meaning, Grace Fuller had seen. But the nurse remained with her cool +fingers on Flagg’s wrist. Only her lips twisted as if, before that +revelation, she wanted to laugh. She helped Flagg to his feet. + +“Good of you,” he said. + +He bowed, apologized again and with a glance at Lilah, unreadable, went +out and quickly downstairs. + +“That’s war,” Grace Fuller remarked dryly. “Thousands like him, trying +to....” + +Lilah brushed her aside. “I’m going with him! He’s ill.... Let me go, I +tell you....” + +Grace Fuller caught Lilah’s arm, held her. “Lilah, don’t be a fool.” + +Lilah cried wildly: “Let me go! I must.... He’s ill.... Oh, damn you!” + +In a white fury she struck, clawed, but Grace Fuller pinioned her arms, +shook her, twisted her back, away from the door. + +“I love him! I love him! I’m not ashamed. Tell Robert! Tell every one! +I want it over.” + +“You’re hysterical,” Grace Fuller said. + +Lilah ceased struggling. For an appalling moment she thought her own +heart had stopped. She sagged against Grace Fuller’s shoulder; while a +dark tide of feeling rose, submerged her, receded again. + +“I love him,” she repeated in a dull voice. “That’s all. What can I +say, or do?” + +She straightened and pushed Grace Fuller away. “Now, you two can dance +on my grave.” + + + + +VII + + +In her own room again, Lilah went to the telephone and called Flagg at +his apartment. A man’s voice answered that Major Flagg was not well. + +“I know,” Lilah said impatiently. “I am Mrs. Peabody. I must speak to +him.” + +“I am Major Flagg’s physician,” was the reply, in a tone Lilah thought +a shade too dry. “He cannot speak to any one.” He went on to explain +that Major Flagg was not seriously ill, but that he must, for a +fortnight, be absolutely quiet. + +“I saw him less than an hour ago,” Lilah insisted. “He seemed quite all +right.” + +The physician, with some acerbity, added that Major Flagg had had +another attack on his way home. He was in bed and must stay there, +undisturbed.... + +“Thank you,” Lilah said. + +She turned away from the instrument with a frightened gesture. She +couldn’t see him! That meant she must meet disaster alone; she had, +irrevocably, committed herself to Grace Fuller. No matter what happened +to Flagg, whether he lived or died, she had lost Robert.... + +She began, unsteadily, to dress for dinner. The Sinclairs, the +lissome May and her husband, were coming, and, as a balance to their +unimportant millions, Lilah had invited the American violinist and his +curtly intelligent bride, a woman who might amuse the Sinclairs because +she belonged to one of the richest families in the country. In the +Sinclairs, two fortunes had come together, and the only enthusiasm they +had in common was money. Their interest was not vulgar, it was, rather, +fraternal. They enjoyed communion with the rare, kindred blessed. + +Lilah thought: “I’ve got to pretend. But none of this is mine--” + +In her chemise, with her hair tumbled on her shoulders, she realized +that she had not called her maid. When she did, it was with a certain +humility that she said: “I am very late.” + +The maid said: “Yes, m’am,” and went into the bathroom to start the +tub. She was a pretty mulatto, a soft, slight creature with the gait of +an enchantress. Lilah had never liked her because she had the air of +knowing everything, and the suave, the velvet quality of her St. Kitt’s +English gave her a certain distinction. + +Lilah wondered: “Could she have heard that row with Grace?” + +She studied the girl’s back, her unhurried, expert gestures, and when +she straightened suddenly, and turned, Lilah was embarrassed. + +“The bath’s ready, m’am.” + +A shower of violet crystals sparkled in the tub, and as Lilah stirred +them, testing the scented water with the tips of her fingers, she had +a sharp memory of tin tubs and basins in Swiss _pensions_.... And, +willfully, she recalled the lovers of Lorelay.... She glanced down at +herself, silver-white, with little bubbles, like quicksilver, climbing +over her skin, bursting on the surface of the water. How lovely her +thighs were, indented, slim, young.... And her knees, her feet.... +She could go to Lorelay with Flagg and send for that famous, that +notorious, tin tub without shame. She was like Manet’s Olympe, not +classical but adorable. Flagg would understand if she mentioned Lorelay +and Olympe. Robert would not; or, if he did, he would be shocked.... + +“Seven o’clock, m’am.” + +“Coming!” + +In a robe of dark blue silk, thrown over a shift of cream chiffon, she +faced her mirror, while the mulatto girl dressed her hair. Her panic +had been replaced by exuberance. She felt certain that she could handle +Grace. Flagg would say, do, nothing. She was safe for a fortnight, with +both love and beauty.... + +“Draw it back, away from my ears. Not fluffy! Here, give me the comb! +I’ve told you so many times.” + +“Sorry, m’am.” + +That pretty, petulant face, honey-colored, was reflected in the triple +mirror in an unguarded moment and Lilah caught a flash of dislike and +contempt from eyes that were usually turned aside. + +“Have you a sweetheart?” Lilah asked, twisting her hair into the Second +Empire contour she affected. + +“Yes, m’am.” + +“Does he love you?” + +The mulatto shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Men are funny. He’s +a pretty man, but he gambles. He spends all my money. He’s a sailor.” + +“Get me the black dress. I’ll want the white cameo ear-rings. No! Not +there! In the leather box. Stupid! Stupid! I’m late.” + +On her way downstairs, where the financial rating of the violinist’s +wife was just dawning on the Sinclairs, Lilah stopped to speak to Grace +Fuller. + +“Grace?” + +“Yes.” Grace Fuller was having her own dinner, in the fashion of +nursery governesses, on a card-table before the fire. + +“You’ve had dinner?” + +“I’m having it--just.” + +Lilah came into the room. She was very lovely. She wore no jewelry, +save the heavy white cameos, set in gold, that dangled from her ears. +She gave no hint of her actual years; Grace Fuller thought, in a +moment of judgment, that she was like the city, a creation of that +energy which is all nerves. There was something ageless in the slim, +provocative, sexless body, thrust a little forward, the carriage of her +head, with its dense weight of hair coiled under, her lips, painted +like an Oriental’s, not scarlet, but magenta. She said lightly: “Am I +all right? Will I do?” + +“Beautifully,” Grace said, flushing. + +Lilah bent down, and Grace became conscious of the odor of sandalwood. +“Dear old Grace; I’m absolutely in your hands.” + +“If you mean that I am not to say anything to Robert,” Grace replied, +“I won’t. Things like this are too personal, too terrible, for an +outsider--” + +“I will know what to say when I see Robert,” Lilah interrupted. Her +manner became, abruptly, sharp and decisive. “Or whether to say +anything at all.” She added, almost carelessly: “My feeling may have +been pity.” + +Grace said nothing. The flush had mounted until her face burned, as if +the shame of Lilah’s confession were hers. For the first time she had +had a glimpse of Lilah’s weakness--she saw her exposed to defeat; the +revelation was, somehow, humiliating. Grace Fuller turned her eyes away. + +“I think you can trust me,” she said. And, instantly, she hated herself +for not having struck. Now it was too late. + +Lilah went downstairs. + +Her guests were already launched. Fred Sinclair was staring at the +violinist’s wife with the satisfaction of an entomologist who has +happened upon a singularly rare insect. Mrs. Sinclair was testing her +charm upon an unyielding surface; the violinist was more a priest than +an artist. Lilah found him parrying Mrs. Sinclair’s sentimental thrusts +with his own peculiar irony. He despised any one who wasted his time. +Lilah trembled for the success of her dinner. She said deftly that in +Robert’s absence she depended perhaps too much on her friends; she +suggested loneliness and a peculiar sensitiveness to “atmospheres.” The +violinist promptly pocketed his ill-temper and his bride surrendered +to Mr. Sinclair’s butterfly-on-a-pin manner. On the way in to dinner, +she graciously stated the size of her fortune, Mr. Sinclair’s +collection thereby gaining a precious specimen. + +Lilah had counted on Flagg as a sixth at the table. In her failure +to warn the servants, a place had been set and she had to explain. +Immediately, the silver and glass were removed, the chair taken away, +but Flagg’s name had interested the violinist. + +“I’m sorry. I’ve always wanted to know him. What a thundering crime--a +man like that, gassed! There could be no survival of the fittest in +such warfare.” + +He spoke with bitterness of the destruction of the world’s best brains +and of the inevitable hiatus--there would be a wide break in both +science and art. As it was, the few who were left carried a double +burden; their responsibility to the past and to the generation that had +had no expression save in death. Flagg was one of the men the world +could not spare. The indignity of his suffering now-- + +The violinist broke off: “I know it isn’t considered polite to talk +about the war. In Europe, people aren’t so squeamish. It happened. It +may happen again.” + +Mrs. Sinclair thought not. + +Lilah smiled at the violence of his retort; he had served on the +Russian front, had seen the Kolchak debacle, and, before that, had +flown over Triest and Pola, Villach and Wien, with d’Annunzio. Mrs. +Sinclair listened to his tirade with a pained expression, as if he +were being intentionally disagreeable. Why on earth talk about war when +you could talk about the theaters, reducing and prohibition--there were +enough interesting things.... + +Lilah pictured Mrs. Sinclair in her Long Island house, a Tudor mansion +set down in a vast wilderness of new rose-gardens upon a featureless +plain, not unadorned but unhallowed. Her security, established when +she was a child, had been deepened by the possession of this enormous +stone house, a fortress against chance or change; in rooms as cold, +as cheerless, as echoing as a series of railway terminals, she seemed +removed from those things which happen to all of us; the walls were +too thick and too new to admit defeat. Lilah wondered what Mrs. +Sinclair would do if the armies the violinist invoked should trample +the Sinclair flower-beds and pepper the Tudor walls with machine-gun +bullets.... Send for the Swiss butler, probably, and die, game and +unconvinced, sipping a dry Martini.... Lilah could not decide which +counted for more--the indifference of the Sinclairs or the awareness +of the violinist; they believed that the future was negligible, the +present amusing, which sufficed; he believed that the world could +be saved only by incredible effort, a supreme, unending, unified +intention.... + +He complained that there was no flame in humanity--too much water had +been thrown on it, perhaps. Life was drab unless kept at an artificial, +stimulated pitch; pleasure, purchased, had taken the place of faith.... + +Mrs. Sinclair, bending her willowy body from the waist, whispered to +Lilah: “My dear--what’s this I hear about you and Putnam Flagg? It +wouldn’t do for you--it wouldn’t do at all! He’s penniless. Now, don’t +look innocent. A dozen people have seen you together, lunching at _tea +rooms_ and meeting in _art galleries_ ... it’s awfully touching, but no +one believes these naïve--” + +“May,” her husband said. + +“Oh, yes.” She turned again to the violinist. “Faith. You were +saying--?” + + * * * * * + +In the morning Flagg telephoned. “Did you think that I would pay any +attention to a doctor’s orders? I want to see you.” + +His voice unnerved Lilah. Every time it was like the first time--a +breathless recognition, a summons, alarming and unavoidable, to a self +beyond self. “He was very severe--” Suddenly her voice broke. Through a +flood of frightened tears, she stammered: “Oh, my darling! My darling!” + +Flagg said gravely: “Lilah--if I could comfort you.... Will you get +your hat and come over here? It’s quite respectable. There’s a nurse, +who will, if I ask her, leave us alone. Or, if you prefer, she will +stay in the room.” + +“I can’t. It isn’t possible! I might be seen.” + +“And what if you are? Before long every one who knows you will know +that you love me. Things like this can’t be gone at politely. When you +break up a marriage, it’s war. It’s got to be war. And neither of us +can afford to be afraid, now, or later. You understand, don’t you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then come!” + +“But--” + +He was silent, and Lilah knew that the issue was important. If she +refused, she would in all probability never see Flagg again. + +“You’re better?” + +“Yes.... Take a taxi. You know the number. These are bachelor quarters, +but I’ve prepared the elevator man--he’ll bring you up.... I’ll be a +lot better when I see you.” + +Lilah thought: “Don’t be squeamish. All the women you know do this sort +of thing.” + +Aloud, she said: “I’ll come at once.” + +She dressed with a romantic attention to detail. She chose a small +black hat with an air of intrigue and sophistication; a veil that +seemed to shut her beauty away so that her eyes were remote, enticing +beneath the rakish brim of the tricorn. + +A streak of conventionality, a dislike of criticism, warred with her +eagerness to see Flagg. She sent her motor away and walked westward to +the Avenue, then uptown. Lilah wanted to have her own way but to be +considered above reproach. The possibility of scandal frightened her; +she thought: “I’m not a coward! Only, to be torn to bits and thrown to +the yellow journals to make a middle-class holiday! A Sunday supplement +martyr! It’s so stupid.... So ugly.... Robert and Junius, all of us--” +With a shock of relief, she thought: “I’m glad I haven’t a child.” + +Still, she might have. Even now, she might have! Robert’s child. Even +now, as she went to Flagg. But that would be a loathsome trick of +destiny; it couldn’t be! Couldn’t.... She didn’t deserve punishment; +not such a punishment! God thought of people--there must be some sort +of divine justice. Now that she had love--But suppose, as Flagg had +said, that there were a God beyond God, and no one watching, no one +caring.... + +She found herself standing before a shop window, and was conscious of +the blurred reflection of herself, the fashionable outline of a woman +of the world. There was security, insurance against a detestable, a +repugnant reality, in the fact of her worldliness. Like Mrs. Sinclair, +she was a product of civilization, a vital, representative image of +society, removed, by her unquestioned right to her position, from the +blind attacks of destiny. She was powerful because she was instructed. +She was indomitable because she was intelligent. If there was a God +beyond a God she could reach Him. She would not take punishment--need +not-- + +She shook herself, tried to stare at the things in the window--a +Florentine chair, more graceful than most of them; a Persian bowl; a +Flemish chest; a Luini; a strip of ecclesiastical velvet; a pair of +Waterford glass chandeliers.... + +Her thoughts flew back to the house she had just left. She had wanted +glass chandeliers for her bedroom--one on either side of the narrow +mantel, to balance the _trumeau_. These were delightful--a shower +of crystals, delicate as cobwebs after a rain. They were, probably, +expensive.... + +Lilah hesitated. Her room was lifeless, almost gloomy; it needed such +a sparkle as these little chandeliers would give.... She saw herself, +moving about in a bland, crystal light.... + +She went into the shop, conscious, as always, nowadays, of her ability +to reach out and take what she wanted. The chandeliers were displayed +by a collector who flattered her by making no comments. That they were +genuine, and rare, was beyond question. + +“I’ll take them.” + +“Very well.” + +“Mrs. Robert Peabody.” + +“I know. We had the pleasure of importing some Venetian glass--” + +Lilah interrupted: “Be sure to send a man to hang the chandeliers.” + +“Certainly. To-morrow.” + +She went out again, somehow relieved, as if she had come unscathed +through a hurricane. Buying things always gave her a sense of security. +Silly of her, to have been afraid of something that could never happen +to her ... never.... + + * * * * * + +Flagg lived in the West Fifties, not far from the noisy “L” track where +trains passed like steel comets, clattering, insistent.... An old man +in an alpaca jacket admitted her to a narrow hallway and to a slow, +dingy elevator operated by a cable. His face was scarlet; there seemed +to have been an explosion of veins beneath the surface of the skin.... +Without glancing at Lilah, he let the cable slip through his hands, as +if, in his dejection and ennui, there could be no end to this ascent. +Lilah thought: “How easy, after all.” He let her out and indicated a +door “to the left. Push the button.” + +Lilah saw the name “Flagg.” There was a rustle behind the door and it +opened sharply. A woman in starched linen said: “Mrs. Peabody? Major +Flagg is waiting. This way, please.” + +Lilah had expected him to be in bed. But he rose from an arm-chair and +smiled down at her. + +“You’re better?” + +“Yes.... Now! You were a long time getting here.” + +“I walked.” + +“Miss Peterson--Mrs. Peabody.” + +The starched woman, who was, to Lilah, as featureless as an egg, bowed, +murmured something and went out, closing the door. + +“Don’t be afraid,” Flagg said. “I won’t keel over again. I’ll give +you tea presently. But now I want to talk to you. You lovely thing! +She can’t hear--there’s a corridor, and then my bedroom, where she’s +sitting. Shall I send her away?” + +“No. No.” Lilah shook her head. “It’s bad enough--my being here.” + +He leaned forward and caught her hands, smiling. He drew off her +gloves, turned her palms over and kissed them. His gestures were +slow but there was nothing of Robert’s hesitancy about him; his eyes +flew over her. She felt again that penetrating delight in him, and +because he did not expect pity, her pity made her tremble; there was +a maternal, a brooding pain in her heart. Without speaking, she went +back to her eager search for the things she loved, enumerated them--the +line of his cheek, the peculiar, sharp modelling of his lips, his +lids, a way his hair had of growing, like a sort of fur, short, thick, +lusterless--she wanted to stroke it, but she didn’t. Somehow, he was +still a stranger whose presence excited and embarrassed her. She +wondered if any one had ever known him; whether she would ever know +him. Robert was like a plant that recoils at the touch of a prying +finger. But Flagg was like an animal; he had the grace, the aloofness +of an animal, the eyes of an animal. She was almost afraid to touch +him. His absorption flattered her, as if a creature of the woods had +strayed close to rub against her and purr--a big cat. Without stirring, +she let him kiss her fingers, one after the other. And she felt again +that sense of a moment prolonged, suspended, until she lost reality. + +Her glance went beyond him to the room. She had never thought of him as +living anywhere.... A shabby, slovenly room. Rows of white shelves were +weighted with books. There were no photographs. Only a small bronze of +a woman and a jar filled with pipes.... + +“This isn’t my place,” he said, glancing up quickly. “It belongs to +a man I knew in France, who’s broke. He loves books, and I’ve had a +feast....” + +His eyes deepened and there came into them that look of a satyr, +mischievous and sensual. She wanted to kiss him, but she held herself +away. Something told her that there would be no going back after +to-day; he would not grant her a reprieve. + +“I’m sorry,” he began, “for what I said yesterday. In time, you’ll love +love--not the idea, but the thing itself. That’s what I’m waiting for. +When it comes to you, so that you understand it--its beauty and its +penalty--you will lose yourself. And then you will be exquisite.” + +“I love you,” she insisted, “now.” + +He shook his head. + +He relinquished her hands and, crossing the room, filled and lighted a +pipe. Then he asked abruptly: “What are you going to tell your husband?” + +“I don’t know.” Catching her breath, she evaded him: “Must I tell him +anything?” + +He did not answer. His expression was mocking. And angrily Lilah cried: +“It isn’t easy! For you, yes! But for me--to break with a man who loves +me and who doesn’t suspect--” + +“Oh. He loves you. I didn’t know that. I had hoped that he didn’t. Are +you sure he does?” + +“Of course! It will kill him. He trusts me.” + +“You haven’t betrayed him!” Flagg said sharply. + +“What do you mean?” + +“Love is never a betrayal. It’s the truth! I am convinced that it is a +sin to deny love, under any circumstances, for any reason--to live with +one man and love another is unmoral, ugly, inexcusable. To live with +one woman and love another is to betray them both. I am not arguing on +the side of promiscuousness. I despise filth. But there is, after all, +a definite standard. A responsibility--to the emotion itself. There’s +your obligation! Only, the world won’t recognize it.... You’ve got to +be sure--dead certain--that what you feel justifies what you do.” + +“You’re putting it up to me, then?” + +He came over and kneeled beside her. He was asking something. His +body pressed against her knees. His hands were supplicating. For +the first time he was humble, but more than ever insistent; life +itself, demanding that she say yes or no, that she take or leave, +give or refuse. In spite of herself, she touched his hair, and with a +terrifying sense of being lost, slipped forward into his arms. + +“I’ll tell him, simply, that I love you.” + +“When?” + +She struggled back, away from him again. But Flagg remained on his +knees, no longer a suppliant; stubbornly, he repeated: “When?” + +“When he comes back--next week.” + +She added, with a flash of disdain: “You might at least be sorry for +him!” She put out her hand quickly and caught his. “I didn’t mean that! +I hurt everybody. Don’t let me hurt you!” + +Flagg laughed. “I don’t let myself be hurt.” + +What he thought was: “If she cares for me, I can hurt her--that’s my +weapon, and she knows it.” He got up and went to the window, stood +there, smoking, his back turned. He waited with admirable restraint for +Lilah to speak again. Behind him, she was absolutely silent. The sun +had gone. The room was fading into the gray shadows of late afternoon, +retreating, dimming, like a blurred photograph. Flagg kept his eyes +on the street; his senses were aware of her; he had no comfort in her +presence, but he wanted her there. Suddenly, she was close to him, +soft, propitiating. She put her arms around him, pressed her face +against his back and they stood, in silence, for a long time. Flagg +no longer saw the city; that slate-gray twilight seemed to envelope +them both, to isolate them. And he had a deep pity for himself and +for her. What should be so simple, so natural, so uncomplicated, +would be raveled and frayed and tarnished.... Between this moment and +anything like the realization of happiness, there would be a struggle +of egos--rebellion, shocked pride, jealousy, in conflict. Before he +could show himself to her and lose himself in her loveliness, both +of them would suffer. And for what? Because life was so confounded +complicated--no passion could be single, perfect, but must be linked up +to other passions, an endless tangle of little, petty feelings--like +lichens on a tree. The growth was hindered, the sap cut off so that the +blossoms withered and the whole plant, tree and parasite, came down +into the dust, choked to death.... + +“Are you sure we’re right?” Lilah asked. “I’ve got to be sure! Isn’t it +selfish to be happy?” + +Flagg answered that to be unhappy was the worst sort of selfishness. +For centuries the world had been in the grip of a superstitious fear of +acknowledged happiness, as if being contented with one’s lot were an +indication of alliance with the devil. If you sang, in old Salem, you +were hanged for a witch. “But to-day, if you sing, you are selfish! And +it amounts to the same thing--the world has its fingers crossed....” + +Flagg asked, without turning: “Have you ever loved your husband, Lilah?” + +Lilah pressed against him. “Don’t ask me, now, to say.... A moment.... +Perhaps, yes. But not like this! I am perfectly willing to divorce him.” + +Flagg wanted to know what reasons she would give. She said impatiently: +“Why--I _want_ a divorce! Isn’t that enough? Such things are arranged. +Nowadays, you don’t have to give reasons, do you?” + +Flagg answered that he would prefer that she allow Robert to bring +suit; the defection, such as it was, was hers; she had tired of her +bargain; she had broken her word; she had found compensation. If +any one was to blame, she was.... Lilah interrupted: “You’re mad! +It would ruin me! It is accepted, usual, for men to take the public +blame for these things--every one understands. It isn’t serious. Don’t +you know--you silly--idealist--that in New York a man can arrange an +adulterous affair by simply hiring a woman, a room and a witness? I +know decent men, respectable men, who have done it, not once, but +several times. Like vaccination, it doesn’t always take. My darling, +you don’t want me talked about.... And it would be so funny.... Robert, +in silk pajamas, entertaining a chorus girl.” + +“You and I, in love--and your husband, caught with a hired adulteress +in a rotten hotel, for your sake! What cheap irony! Such things +are damned ugly. You and I will take our medicine, Lilah. Or we’ll +renounce, now, what might be so fine. If you’re afraid, say so.” + +After a moment, Lilah said, “I’m not afraid.” + +She drew away. A knock at the door was followed, discreetly, by a +professional inquiry: “You are feeling better, Major Flagg?” And that +starched, rustling presence entered, carrying a glass. With a gesture +of rebellion, funny because it was unconscious, Flagg took the mixture +and drank it. + +“You’re talking too much,” the nurse said. With another crackle of +starched skirts, she moved from lamp to lamp and the room came into +sharp outline. The slovenly carpet and worn chairs, a frayed scarf on +the table.... + +“I’ll go,” Lilah said quickly. + +“Hang the doctor!” Flagg exploded. “I beg your pardon, Miss +Peterson--but doctors don’t always understand.” + +She took the empty glass from him, shrugging her shoulders. And the +door closed upon her with a disapproving bang. + +“I must go,” Lilah said again. “I must. If anything should happen to +you--” + +Flagg made her sit down. He made her remove the concealing veil and +the little black hat. He began to take the pins out of her hair, but, +laughing, she stopped him. She could not, now, imagine that he had +ever been ill; a mood of playfulness had followed his rebellion; he +was curiously like a young animal again, lost in his delight in her. +He was lovable, willful; she stayed because he wanted it. It was hard +to refuse him anything. And she couldn’t see that her being there hurt +him--he had forgotten his enemy in his discovery of Lilah. Sitting +on the floor with his arm thrown across her knees, he talked about +himself. Himself, as a little boy. As an almost grown boy. As a young +man. It was as if he wanted her to share everything, all in a moment; +as if he could make her see the whole pattern of his life, so that he +would never be alone again. Lilah could feel herself change, relent, +bend down to him with a lovely tenderness. It was what she had always +wanted to be, the way she had wanted to feel, only that no one had +let her be herself. People had allowed her to be hard and bright and +dominating! Now she was the woman she might have been. The simplest +things he said touched her. She had no desire to ridicule, to hurt him. +She wanted him to want her, to need her, to get closer and closer to +her heart. + +“I wish I had seen you when you were a little boy,” she said. + +“I was a sort of flat face and terribly earnest. From the beginning, +before I could reason, I wanted to know about God. I couldn’t believe. +And the harder they tried to make me believe, the more stubborn I was. +God was unimaginable. They sent me to Sunday school, where I sat with +my underlip sticking out, denying God with my muscular system--braced +against acceptance. I remember that this refusal made me, in my own +eyes, an outcast. I thought of myself as the loneliest and wickedest +child on the crust of the globe. But I believed only what I could see, +touch or smell.” He shook his head. “And I never got a whiff of God! I +remember that one day a sort of evangelist came to the Sunday school. +He asked all the little boys and girls who believed in God to stand up. +I sat where I was, burning with shame. He leveled at me a shouting and +frothing, invective, hate and threats of damnation--eternal. And how I +loathed God! When he got through he asked all the little boys and girls +who didn’t believe in God to stand up, and I stood up, alone.... + +“Aren’t kids everlastingly funny? I hadn’t an ounce of prevarication in +me; I told the truth, always, until I was a grown man, when I learned +that there are times when the truth hurts. Then I drew in my claws. I +make velvet paws nowadays. But that doesn’t affect my honesty--I am +deadly honest with myself.” + +Lilah wondered whether he could feel her shivering with delight in +being near him, whether he saw how her eyes looked at him. She could +never go back to Robert. She could never again pretend. It was going to +be hard. It was going to hurt her to strip herself naked of pretense +and fight for this new, this strange and wonderful raiment. + +“Did you ever change,” she asked unsteadily, “about God?” + +He was launched again. He told her about his student days in +Germany--how he had gone back, patiently, to the sources. His days of +pessimism. His romantic year. A period of mysticism. A frightened, at +first tentative groping through the mazes of science. Then, something +like a personal conviction, emerging.... He began to shake off support +and to stand alone, almost against his will, for to stand alone was +a responsibility. It forever removed him from the sensuous, happy, +careless self he had wanted to be and demanded that he face facts, +cold, brutal, unadorned and make of them what he could. God came to him +out of these facts--not the God he had refused to believe in--a vastly +different-- + +He made her see, somehow, why he was not afraid of pain or death, and +why he was reconciled. He hadn’t much longer--but why should he have +longer? Only to love her. To make her happy, if that was what she +wanted. + +“I didn’t know you could care like this. But since you do--” + +She still trembled; he could not help but see what she was feeling. The +thing that hurt her now was that he would have to know how little and +selfish she had been. The self she had to offer him was inadequate. +Her magic was tawdry, like cheap spangles on a dancer’s skirt. Her +beauty was painted on. The reality, the real Lilah had nothing to give +him. And some day, when he had stopped loving her technique, he would +look for her art, and find nothing, only fear and an ugly desire to +keep him, at all costs. She saw herself, in a sort of contorted and +nightmarish vision, pleading with him; she saw his indifference--no, +his recognition--crushing her down. It wasn’t Robert and Junius, +scandal, that she was afraid of; it was not having Flagg. That was the +most terrible thing--to be alone again, inventing enthusiasms, because +the reason for being was not there. + +This was what Robert had meant. + +“You’re not listening,” Flagg said. + +“I am. I am.” + +“I changed,” he went on, from what beginning Lilah could not guess, “as +every one changed. And like every one else, I saw freedom as the most +desirable end, gaining it all important. Only that I differed from most +in that I didn’t want freedom for personal reasons. I’ve always been +singularly free of the crooked, inherited notions that hold men back. +But a freedom that releases the mental power of humanity--I can’t make +you understand; I’ve only the vaguest notion myself! But I see that if +we don’t adapt ourselves, we’ll disappear from the earth. We don’t need +web feet or fluffy little wings or snouts, yet we do need an entirely +new sort of mind. And the old way of thinking has got to be pitched +out, forgotten.” + +He clasped her hands, tight, between both of his. “But we can’t pitch +it out all at once! The social wheel is still revolving, although the +engine has been smashed--it is carried forward by its own momentum, +down-hill--a few hundred years of coasting! The survivors will look +back at us as we look back at the Neanderthal ape--that’s how fast +we’re going.... In the meantime, here we are, you and I, trying to +conform to the decencies.” + +“Are we?” Lilah asked. In spite of herself, she laughed. “I don’t think +it’s decent, exactly, to cheat Robert. If we’re being honest....” + +He interrupted: “Lilah, have you stopped to think about me?” + +“Why, yes.” + +“Aren’t you thinking about yourself?” + +She shook her head. + +He insisted: “Do you know what I want? What I dream of? Hours of +sunshine. Hours of perfectly imbecile happiness, lying on a green +hill with my head in your lap, watching the clouds go over. Must we +wait? It isn’t so far to Spring. Can’t we go somewhere--I know a town +in Connecticut, off the tourist track, where we’d be let alone. In +April, the frogs sing at dusk, and the air is moist, cool, full of +little gnats that dance as the sun goes down. I used to go there, years +ago, to watch things grow. A marvelous season, Lilah. There’s a stir, +actual, in the soil, and those prying, green fingers come through.... +Suppose you and I were there to watch it together? I stayed at a +farmhouse. We could go there. The apple orchard--if it hasn’t changed, +and God forbid!--is deep with grass. And our room would be under the +eaves....” + +“You mustn’t talk like this!” + +“Why not?” + +“You mustn’t.” + +“Does it hurt you? Tell me!” + +“Yes.” + +“Then I know I’m right. You’ve got to come to me as soon as you’ve +told your husband. It isn’t fair to take from him what you don’t +deserve--that house, and these clothes and all your ease and luxury! +It doesn’t belong to you! After to-day, I’ll hate every hour you spend +there. I want you to give back everything he’s given you. I’m not +jealous, only I believe in value received.” + +Lilah felt like a runner. Breathlessly, she dodged this obstacle. “You +wouldn’t expect Robert to bargain?” + +“I’m not thinking of Robert. I’m thinking of you. What I want you to +be. If you love me, you’ll come to me, free, not all tangled up in +another man’s possessions.” + +She pushed him away. + +“I’ve got to go.” + +“Not yet. It’s only six o’clock.” + +“But it’s dark. What will that nurse think?” + +“I’m all right. I only want you.” + +“I know. But some day you may have too much of me.” + +“Stay.” + +She got up and he stood close, pleading. Lilah was afraid, with that +same delicious fear. Now, she wanted to hide her trembling from him, +to ward off what must happen if he guessed the extent, the danger, of +her surrender. She began to fasten her veil, her arms, in tight, black +sleeves, upraised; Putnam Flagg watched her, and, characteristically, +avoided, at that moment, any caress. When she glanced up, he said: +“Very charming. What a minx you are! An artist. I admire you +inordinately, if for nothing more than your gift of putting me off!” + +Suddenly she clung to him. “Tell me the truth. Are you going to get +well?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Is it terrible--the pain?” + +“Bad enough. As if a hand squeezed, here, harder and harder. I could +die, if I’d let myself. Only I won’t.” + +“What does the doctor say?” + +“Nothing. He’s used to bad hearts.” + +“I hate doctors. They’re beasts! I hate suffering. I hate bodies.” +She beat with her palms against his breast. “It’s terrible. Terrible! +That you should suffer so! And we stand here, talking about houses and +clothes and my owing something to Robert. When I only owe myself to +you, now and forever.” + +They kissed. They trembled against each other. And Lilah had never +known such giving. He said: “The world’s full of ugliness. It needn’t +be, perhaps. But it is. We’ll have to face this pain of mine along with +the rest.... Now I’ll let you go.” + +She went out into the street again. No one she knew was, at the moment, +passing. She turned East, facing a cold wind. Her figure passed in and +out of the squares and rounds of light cast by shop windows and street +lamps, hurrying, bent a little forward. Her thoughts were hurrying, +hurrying, ahead of her, toward the Spring, a dusk when frogs would sing +and gnats dance, and she would lie against Flagg, holding the pain away +with her two arms, her lips, her love.... + + + + +VIII + + +Lilah woke again to that certainty.... + +She opened her eyes. Familiar things came into focus, were, +inexplicably, unreal. She had the impression of waking in a strange +room. Circumstance had changed the very outlines of accepted facts. +At once her mind began the chase interrupted by sleep; unleashed, her +thoughts darted down confused paths, circled, doubled, stopped aghast. + +She leaned on her elbow and examined her arms, her hands. She could +not associate her hands with herself. They might have belonged to +another body. This certainty had in some mysterious way deprived her of +herself. Her consciousness was separate; it was pain and fear. + +She fell back on the pillows and pressed her fingers against her +eyes. She must get hold of herself. Do something. Other women had had +children. She wouldn’t die. In a year it would be over and she could +go back.... The acceptance of that thought was like a trickle of ice +through her veins. + +If she had loved Robert.... + + * * * * * + +Back again! Her thoughts were mad, erratic, feverish. She could not +control them, or bring order out of chaos. + +Sitting up with a violent gesture, she saw that it was past nine +o’clock. She had, then, slept. Extraordinary! That she could sleep, +that the tired body was stronger than the will! She had not wanted to +sleep or to lose for an instant her watchfulness. Now, she felt, she +had surrendered to this fact. In sleep, she had been stamped by nature +with acquiescence. + +She had been running away from herself. For a week, in crowded +theaters, restaurants and drawing-rooms dedicated to forgetfulness, she +had let herself be swept forward on the current. For hours at a time, +she had forgotten, had postponed remembering. As if there were no reef +ahead, no shattering of the frail craft that had carried her so far +toward disaster. In moments of waiting, it had returned, always like a +thin, icy trickle, down through her brain to her heart. + +She must do something. + +She half rose, but before she could disguise her dishevelment, +the scars left by tears, the door opened and the mulatto came in, +moving furtively as if to cover her curiosity. Lilah, for the first +time, had the feeling that she was trapped, humiliated, her pride +leveled by a tragedy shared by all women--this yellow girl, herself! +She felt contempt. Some women sacrificed themselves with a smile +to the inevitable, or concealed their wretchedness beneath an air +of superiority, as if a thing so usual, so inexorable, so outside +themselves, were a matter for congratulation. Other women seemed to be +ordained--an order of motherhood; but they were never lovers, wives; +they tended the flame of race, kept it burning. God knew why any +one should willingly add a soul to a world where there were already +too many souls, too much suffering. Better to let humanity dwindle, +thousand by thousand, until the last man staggered to his knees and +died and the earth was left once more to the forests, to animals, to +storm and sunlight, unrecorded, eternal. + +The maid, lifting the blinds, remarked that Miss Fuller had been +waiting for half an hour. + +“Ask her to come up. And I shall want breakfast here.” + +“Yes, m’am.” + +Grace Fuller came, bringing, as always, the morning’s mail. Her fringe +was curled, not a hair out of place. And across the pallor of her +cheeks, rouge showed like veining on a leaf. + +From the bed, Lilah asked: “Anything amusing? I overslept.” + +Grace Fuller put the letters within reach of Lilah’s hand, on the +coverlet. Without preface, she said: “I’m sorry, Lilah. I can’t stay, +go on--I thought I ought to tell you. I’ve registered and to-morrow I +take a case.” A faint smile twisted her lips as she added: “A hopeless +case.” + +Lilah glanced at the letters. Suddenly she tossed them aside. “You +needn’t leave, unless you want to. I’m going to have a baby.” + +She sat up, pushing the hair back from her forehead, straining it back +violently. Her eyes were heavy. There was no trace of beauty in her +face; she was, for the moment, old. “I’m going to have a baby,” she +repeated in a dull voice. + +Her head went down between her knees. She heard Grace Fuller saying: +“Lilah. Lilah! I’m glad for you! This will change everything. Wait +until your heart accepts--I know what it does to women. I’ve watched. +You’ll forget the other, come back to Robert, in gratitude.” + +Lilah held her breath. Her revolt and her hate were ponderable; she +felt the weight of them across her back; her body huddled; she tried to +flatten herself out, to escape. Her hair fell forward and she caught at +the thick strands with her teeth. Now, she knew, it was inevitable. She +jerked away from Grace’s hands, flung herself aside. + +“I’ll never change,” she cried. “Never. This won’t make me different. +I’m myself. I will be. It’s something I’ve got to stand. But I’ll keep +myself away from it. I’ve always resented being a woman. Gross. Ugly. +Unfair....” + +She sat up again. “Tell that girl to see that the cook doesn’t ruin the +eggs. I want a decent breakfast.” + + * * * * * + +At eleven o’clock Lilah was seated in the outer office of a physician +who was secure in the possession of a fashionable patronage. + +The room was quiet, almost bare, and in chairs ranged against the wall, +ten or twelve women were waiting. Now and then a door opened and a +woman in white, with eyeglasses and a cap elaborately starched and +folded, beckoned to one or the other. These patients, Lilah noticed, +never reëntered the anteroom, but were ushered out another way, perhaps +to keep the tide of despair from meeting the tide of hope. Other women, +arriving, took the vacated chairs. A table covered with neat stacks of +magazines offered an escape from curious eyes; there was a discreet, +a constant turning of pages. Behind them, expressions were guarded, +indefinable. Lilah sought duplication of her own sensations. Her face, +she decided, must be as expressionless as the others. It was as if, at +a prearranged signal, these women had become anonymous, featureless. +Only when the door opened and the capped woman beckoned, there was a +flash of excitement, of dread, of something forced and desperately +unwilling.... Time and again the door opened and closed. + +When Lilah heard her name, repeated three times because she had +withdrawn so far into herself, she followed the nurse with a sort of +arrogance, an indifference to the outcome. Inwardly, she felt again +that sense of acquiescence, of surrender to a ruthless inquisitor. + +The inner office was large, paneled. At a desk between two tall windows +draped with brown velvet, the doctor allowed himself the advantage of +turning his back to the light. Lilah saw him in silhouette--not the +traditional physician, bearded and purposefully benign; a business man +clipped, concise, scientific. To him she was no more than a name, a +number. His manner had in it a trace of the impatience of the normal +man who has had to deal with the delicate and unstable emotional +balance of sick women. He was not jovial; he was not even polite. His +dry questions, spoken with an accent of amusement, irritated Lilah. She +snapped back at him. She had always been healthy; she had had a healthy +contempt for illness; people were sick because they were stupid, or +victims, like Flagg, of accident. She had thought of herself as immune, +outside suffering and the ugly, wearisome details of suffering.... She +had time, while he questioned her, to notice the elaborate simplicity +of his settings; he received his patients in a room reminiscent of +little drawing-rooms at Fontainebleau. A pretty, red-haired girl took +Lilah’s answers in short-hand. Lilah resented this girl’s presence. The +whole proceeding was degrading, like a public scandal. + +Lilah fixed the physician with an unwavering gaze. She had expected +him, for a large fee, to rid her of this tormenting suspicion. But she +had not expected him to uncover her fear, subject it to Hogarthian +records in short-hand.... Marriage à la Mode filed away in a card-index +cabinet.... + +She wished, now, that she had stayed away. + + * * * * * + +In her motor, still quivering under that professional irony, a +confirmation which had stripped her of arrogance, she looked out at the +city with, again, that tormenting sense of the unreality of familiar +things. People hurrying, laughing, meeting, waiting on the curbs for +the tide of traffic to pass--Lilah was hurt by their indifference to +her tragedy. There was no such thing as a common, a shared, suffering. +No one, not even Flagg, could comprehend. She saw a group of people +familiar to her, Chivers Chew with three women, standing before a +florist’s window in animated conversation. Their security, their +pleasure, seemed as remote as dumb-show within a lighted proscenium. +And Lilah’s melancholy was shot across by a pang of jealousy. + +The mulatto met her with the announcement that Major Flagg had +telephoned repeatedly. + +Lilah said in an indifferent voice: “Pack my things. I’m going to +Maine to-night. Ask Elliott to wire Mr. Peabody. And tell him to get +a stateroom. If Major Flagg calls again, you may say that I have left +town.” + + * * * * * + +March came in, blustering, with a buoyant race of large, white clouds +and a wind that ruffled the swollen streams and spread steel-colored +fans across the purple-blue of the sea. The air was sweet with the odor +of wet earth. Willow sprouts showed silver-gray in the ditches. In the +woods and hollows patches of brown snow melted in the sun. Trailing +sprays of waxen arbutus lifted the pine-needles and fallen leaves, +thrust them up and aside. And always the wind billowed and tumbled over +the brown hills, the soaked fields, the noisy, awakened forests. + +There was a stir in the earth, after the long stillness of winter. + +In a short skirt, a jacket of fur, hatless, Lilah turned away from +the sea and walked inland. A cane Robert had given her, of Malacca, +mounted in amber, swung from her hand. She could not abide the sea, the +dunes, the beach brushed with swift eddies of blown sand. A boisterous +sea was strong medicine for the spirit. It was too bright, too alive; +it had a ruthless virility that frightened her. If only she had been +free enough, brave enough, to brace herself in the shifting, stinging +sands, to breast the wind, to take great swallows of it into her lungs, +to fill her body with it, to laugh at it! Because she was a coward, +she preferred the woods, where, in a chill shadow, in a sort of calm +beneath the brittle crackle of bending boughs above, she was safe from +nature itself. She walked in a void, her thoughts held in abeyance, +like hounds on a leash. + +She had told Robert immediately of his good fortune. Something warned +her not to express, just then, her own dissatisfaction. She noticed +a difference in him; his desire for her was no longer humble; it had +become definitely material and possessive, concrete. His happiness only +added to her own inner tumult. He guessed nothing of what went on in +her mind, her heart. He was happy. So must she be! He had never heard +Flagg’s name. He did not guess what had happened, what she had felt. +She was infinitely removed from him; she could even be sorry for him. + +Robert behaved as she supposed all men behaved under the circumstances. +He became both dictatorial and tender. She was shielded from draughts, +assisted up and down stairs; he ran after her with shawls and wraps; +she became the object of his unwavering, worshipful attention; his +blue eyes, round, expressionless and innocent, followed every move +she made. “For heaven’s sake, Robert, leave me alone. I’m quite all +right. I won’t break.” And he would say absent-mindedly: “I’m sorry.” +The next instant his arm would be around her waist. It was clear that +he realized nothing.... Some day he must know that he had been making +a fool of himself. Her physical presence, this child, were his. Her +feeling, all that made her desirable, belonged to Flagg. Without Flagg, +she was valueless, like a counterfeit coin. Robert was insufferable +because he could not see. + +To escape him, the barrier of protective, almost primitive tenderness +he had built around her, she followed the bridle paths through the +woods. She wanted to ride but Robert objected. There were two saddle +horses in the stable, a roan and a chestnut, good English horses full +of mettle that turned rakish eyes on Lilah whenever she went to their +stalls. “They’ve been boxed up all winter,” Robert said. “They’re mad +to run. But the ground’s soft. They won’t feel a saddle until the end +of April.” He added: “We may have more snow. This is a false Spring.” + +Whenever Robert touched her, Lilah had an impression of herself tamed +and savage, a dangerous restraint, a hanging on beyond the powers of +endurance. + +She had not written Flagg. That soft St. Kitt’s voice with its accent +of mockery had told him that Mrs. Peabody was “out of town.” No more. +She had not seen him since that day in his rooms, when she had +promised him.... Now she was gone. He would believe that she had lost +courage, had fled from facts. So she had.... She could not face such +facts as had assailed her, beaten her down, overwhelmed her. He would +despise her. Or else he would follow and question her.... She dreaded +every day that held this possibility. It would be like Flagg to get at +the truth, whether or not he hurt her or hurt himself. + +Men were selfish. Flagg, like the rest. She was being destroyed by the +selfish love of these three men, Junius, Robert, Flagg. + +Junius had said simply, at Robert’s announcement: “I’m glad. There will +be some one, a Peabody, to appreciate the Moselle.” Later, to Lilah, +he had added: “I wish you were happy, Lilah.” Irritated, she moved +away, and he followed, put his thin, withered hand on her arm. “I don’t +pretend to understand your generation. But I can read certain human +sign-posts. If you can’t talk to me, to whom can you talk?” + +She faced him with a stony expression. “If Robert could read +sign-posts,” she said, “I wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t want me.” + +Junius Peabody’s look changed and Lilah realized that she had touched +his pride. After a moment, during which he brushed his mustache with +that large, cambric handkerchief scented faintly with Cologne water, +he said: “I won’t argue. Your remark was in bad taste.... I don’t give +a snap of my finger for Robert. He hasn’t the qualities I admire; the +things I began he seems unable to finish. Or else he doesn’t care, +which is the disease at the core of society to-day. You don’t care, any +of you, about anything outside yourselves.... I believe I warned you, +in the beginning, of what might happen?” + +Lilah ignored the implied question. “I’m here,” she said briefly. + +“Is duty, too, out of fashion?” he asked with an ironic smile. + +“Yes,” she answered. “When it is discharged unwillingly. When it gets +in the way of--” + +“Of what?” + +“Being yourself.” + +Junius Peabody shrugged his shoulders. “What will the world be like +when each one of us looks out for himself? We will be at the mercy of +such disciplined creatures as the army ant. I can’t see that you gain +by being what you term ‘yourself.’ You aren’t happier than the women of +my day, who were what their husbands expected of them.... I am willing, +however, to be instructed....” + +He broke off and stared through the window at the flashing sea. “The +Forsythe’s girl, Marian, spent the holidays at home. She used to come +over here quite often. At first, because she came on skis across the +hills and arrived as rosy as a snow apple, I enjoyed her visits. Later, +I dreaded them. At seventeen, she has the knowledge and the vocabulary +of a roué. She had learned more badness at a girls’ school in New York +than I knew at thirty, or forty. She smoked, of course. She would +sit where you are sitting and light one cigarette from another. And +she tossed the ends away with the gesture of a longshoreman. She was +an excellent shot.... Externals.... So I thought. But the thing went +deeper. She was clever. She had reasoned herself out of responsibility +and I could find no flaw in her arguments.... When she had gone I would +sit for hours, depressed, frightened. That she used a lipstick, not +skillfully, is certainly a symbol--of what, I am not certain. I would +have said that she was going to the devil.... She had a sort of brusque +contempt for love, as I understand it; yet her whole appeal was to sex. +Her attitudes--initiated, purposeful--were inviting. Love would fail. +Marriage would fail. She not only expected to have a lover, she behaved +as if such experiments were inevitable. She liked me, at eighty-four, +because, she said, I was a ‘sport.’ What she meant was that I gave her +cigarettes and whisky whenever she came here. She was bored, and, I am +certain, not happy. Something has been damaged in these young people; +their imagination....” + +Lilah said: “I wouldn’t be too complacent about the past, if I were +you. There were girls like Marian Forsythe in Victoria’s day--they +fainted for the same reason the modern flapper shows her legs.” + +He laughed and Lilah, stooping quickly, kissed the top of his head, +where the hair, snow white, showed a pink parting. “I love to +quarrel with you.... You aren’t to worry about me. I’m twenty-seven, +twenty-eight, almost. I love some one Robert doesn’t know, has never +heard of. You said I would. I do. It happened the way that wind out +there comes up in the Spring, scattering everything, waking things up, +changing the face of the world. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Take +him, of course. But not now.” + +Junius Peabody’s face had gone a little gray; beneath the sweep of +white mustaches, his lips trembled. Lilah saw that he was too old, too +worn, to stand the shock of violent circumstances. He said nothing. His +unsteady hands groped for hers, patting them, stroking them. Suddenly +Lilah loved him, because he seemed to understand her. + + * * * * * + +Robert wanted her to see his spaniels. “It’s a small thing to do for +me, Lilah.” It was, invariably, either too cold or too windy or too +damp to cross the “greenery” to the kennels. Lilah found excuses, +because to subscribe to an enthusiasm of Robert’s was to encourage +him, and it was more stimulating to test his devotion by inventing +subtle rebuffs. The question of the spaniels came up repeatedly; their +antagonism swung to it like a weather vane; it became the focus of +his desire to subjugate her and of her desire to torment him. There +was no other vengeance; Lilah found comfort in blaming Robert for her +loss. “I don’t like spaniels.” Robert winced and said desperately: “But +they’re fine little chaps! You can’t help liking them.” Lilah knew +that Robert’s pups fetched extravagant prices and that a glass case in +the kennels contained a dozen blue rosettes dear to Robert’s heart. +She finally inspected the trophies and the dogs. It would not do to +be surly. But she managed, by an expression, a smile, a reservation, +to make Robert feel that the whole business was childish, useless and +absurd. + + * * * * * + +April came, and still there was no snow. + +It was customary at the Point to send one of the stable men to the +postoffice, ten miles distant, every day at noon. The mail was brought +in a leather pouch and emptied upon a table in the hall. Lilah was +conscious of this rite no matter where she happened to be. A month had +passed without word from Flagg. She dreaded any sign from him, yet +expected, longed for even the most scornful message. She waited with a +peculiar, tormented shrinking for that letter she knew must come. + +One day, as she passed the table, she caught sight of her name written +in a small, black, unfamiliar hand upon a square envelope. + +She opened it before she realized that Flagg had, at last, written. +Thrusting the letter into her pocket, she went outdoors, and, this +time, to the beach. No matter what he had said, he had written; she +could bear the brightness of the sea! The beach was packed smooth by +the receding tide, and ribbons of kelp lay at high-water mark like +garlands strung from dune to dune. There was no wind. A mackerel sky, +translucent shells of vapor, clouded the sun. It was such a vast sky, +so tall, so immovable, so luminous! Lilah saw herself, very small, +walking between sky and earth, walking in a great crystal globe, with +her letter. + +She read it at last, expecting a burning accusation. But Flagg said +simply that he was waiting for word from her. He was remarkably better, +and her absence, prolonged unreasonably, was the only thing that stood +between him and happiness, recovery. + +Lilah turned back to the envelope. The address, Peabody’s Point, proved +that he knew where she was. If she did not write to him, he would come. +And that, for every one, for herself most of all, would mean disaster. + +She went through the deep, dry sand to the dunes and lay full length, +her arms under her head, staring up at the sky. The earth receded, +seemed to drop away, and she was floating in a void. The sand was warm +on the surface, cool if you dug your fingers in. And the hum of the sea +was lazy, detached, like the hum in a conch shell. Patches of cloud +moved, and the sky was gentian blue.... It hurt, a physical hurt, to be +alone.... + +What could she tell him? The truth? And drive him away! Nothing? + +Suddenly, for the first time, she saw herself as a failure. She had +missed everything. + + * * * * * + +The following morning she spoke to Robert about the necessary closing +of the Thirty-eighth Street house. She thought that he ought to attend +to it. Servants were always careless and she herself did not feel equal +to details. Robert, in riding breeches and puttees, was polishing +a saddle. He had the rich man’s fondness for doing himself what he +paid other men to do. “Let Grace attend to it,” he said. “She’s a +crackerjack at that sort of thing.” Lilah said tersely that Grace had +gone back to nursing; she was not in New York. Robert looked up. “Well, +I’ll be damned! Why didn’t you tell me so?” Lilah answered that she +had not supposed he cared one way or the other. This Robert took to be +a twinge of jealousy. His spirits rose and he caught Lilah and kissed +her. “You care, don’t you? I mean, for me? Sometimes, I wonder. You’re +a deep one.... I’m crazy about you, Lilah! I wonder if you know how +happy I am?” + +“Are you? Then you’ll go to town and close the house. There’s a good +Bobsie.” + +When he had gone, she felt relief. It was good to be alone with Junius. +He pottered about at small, fussy undertakings which had the dignity +of rites religiously performed. The old relish details which impede +the young--the exact measure of a cup of coffee, the arrival of the +mail carriage promptly at noon, the aroma of a cigar, a meticulous and +rigidly adhered to change of garments at seven o’clock, the rise and +fall of the barometer, the flavor of a chop. Life was given a false but +comforting air of permanence and dignity by the importance of little +things. There was no headlong rush. + +Lilah had allowed herself to be careless; she had not, since her +arrival, dressed for dinner. Now, with Robert gone, that eager, +propitiating, sympathetic presence out of the way, she flattered +Junius by appearing for dinner in negligeés with floating sleeves, in +odd headdresses made of twisted silk, her fingers a frosty, excessive +sparkle of jewels. A sort of flirtation, rather, an appreciation of +one another, candid and humorous, could not have gone on in Robert’s +presence. They could not be themselves where there was a likelihood +of criticism. Lilah said: “We are very alike.” And Junius agreed. +Changeable, intolerant, vain, impulsive. Delightful! But dangerous to +other people. Together, they could play--act, shift like the winds, +speak of beauty, or sit in silence, conscious of their pride and their +perfection. Robert had a way, heavy, uncomprehending, of taking them +for granted. “She is happier without Robert,” Junius thought. “I’ll +keep him away a while longer. There is work to be done in Georgia--I’m +buying cypress. I’ll send him there, make it imperative. The color’s +coming back to her cheeks. Too bad! Too bad!... But I stuck, where +she won’t.” He could pity her, for she was so like himself, with all +that indefinable search for perfection, that restless desire never +satisfied. He was sorry for such people. Far better to be commonplace +and to find, in acceptance of dullness, content he and she could +never find. There was something wrong, unbalanced, in such insatiable +natures, and yet their very discontent and arrogance set them aside +from the common run of people, made them, he felt certain, immeasurably +superior. He was sorry for her. He took to watching her furtively as he +smoked his single after-dinner cigar. + +She had absolutely no interest in small domestic matters; however, +when she was in the house things ran better than they ever did under +Aunt Whiteside’s fussy management. She would spend a whole evening +staring into the fire, wanting to talk to him about the man she loved, +but keeping still because she had a sense of proportion--after all, +he was Robert’s grandfather! Junius was curious to know about the man +who had won her, what sort of fellow he was--some one unusual, of +course, as different from Robert as possible. And Junius had a twinge +of remote envy, an almost romantic sensation; he knew what rapture +she was capable of if a man once touched her imagination. Some one +mysterious, a little cruel--otherwise, she would have had nothing to +do with him.... As for himself, he enjoyed her presence; he would have +prolonged the moment, stretched it out indefinitely, for it contained, +in its essence, the illusion of youth. He could dream, without being +ashamed of dreaming. Detached, sympathetic, he watched her. She would +play for him if he asked it; he liked the modern composers; the more +modern the better! Old songs were wistful, reminiscent. But these +strange, exciting modernists gave you a sense of to-morrow, innovation, +audacity, as if anything were possible, save when, as in the Clair de +Lune, there was pity and tenderness for the despised and forgotten +posturings of lovers and poets.... + + * * * * * + +Robert went reluctantly to Georgia, and Lilah was left to make her +decision. Another letter came from Flagg, impatient, this time, with +a touch of anger and rebellion. She answered that things were not as +simple as she had expected; he must wait. A wire was brought to her two +days later. He was coming! + +Lilah went at once to Junius. She gave him the telegram and stood +waiting. “You see. I can’t stop him. He’ll be here to-morrow.” + +Junius said: “Flagg.... You didn’t tell me his name.... Does he +know....” + +“No!” Lilah spoke sharply. “No! I love him. I want him. What shall I +do?” + +“I’ll send him away. He mustn’t bother you. He’s got to be made to +understand that you are here, with us, temporarily.... You see, in this +I am old-fashioned. His following you shocks me. Robert is away. And as +sorry as I am for you, if he insists, I’ll take my cane to him!” + +He stroked her hand. “There. There. These things aren’t irrevocable.” + +Lilah said: “I intend to see him.” + +“I intend to prevent you.” + +“You can’t.” + +Their eyes met and Junius rose. “I won’t have you cheapen yourself. +Sell yourself for a song! I love you, too.” + +“You don’t!” she retorted. “You couldn’t, and expect me to go on living +this way. Quivering, inside, when Robert comes near me. I deny him +everything. I torment him. His goodness makes a devil of me. I don’t +want this child. I’m drugged, now, by this place--a sort of lull, when +I sleep because it is easier to sleep. But now that I know Flagg is +coming, I come alive, body and soul. Perhaps I have ruined Robert’s +life, but my own will be ruined unless I have Flagg.” + +With a feeling of futility, of confusion and fatigue Junius said: “If +this man’s a gentleman, I won’t need to send him off; he’ll go. And +stay!” + +With a gesture of contempt, Lilah left him. But she was more concerned +than she cared to let Junius know. + +She went to her room and dressed for riding. The windows were open and +she could hear the excited barking of dogs in the kennel. A gardener +was turning sod on the lawn, spreading manure. Lilacs were in bud. +Nearly a year had passed since that marriage before an altar of syringa +bloom. Another year, and what would have happened to her? + +She stared at herself in the mirror; then, dissatisfied, studied her +face in a hand-glass, scrutinizing her skin. The struggle to preserve +a balance, to keep some sort of hold on security, had aged her; her +mouth drooped. In two years she would be thirty. In ten, forty. And +she was going to be a withered, embittered little old woman; perhaps, +after all, beauty was a disadvantage. If Flagg lived, she would have +to hold him with beauty, where another woman might hold him with +easy sensuality, laughter and indifference to externals--a lazy, +affectionate, humorous, slovenly woman.... + +Lilah put the mirror down. She passed her hands over her face, +shivered, laughed unsteadily. She was slim as a boy in riding clothes. + +She went out without speaking again to Junius. Their friendship had +been shattered in that clash of wills; pride, in him, was intensified +by senility. He was going to be difficult; he might even send for +Robert because the Peabody integrity was threatened.... + +One of the stablemen was rollicking with the spaniel in the yard. +He touched his cap and when Lilah asked him to saddle the roan, he +remarked doubtfully: “He’s awful fresh, ma’am.” Lilah stooped over the +dog and said tersely: “Bring him out. I can manage him.” + +In the saddle, she had a moment of panic. The big horse wheeled +sideways in the gravel, but Lilah mounted, with a spring from the +stableman’s palm. She felt very small and light and free. + +She rode directly to the woods, where, in softer ground, the roan was +impatient. It was late afternoon. A sudden darkness, clouds pushing +up from the western horizon, was followed by a rush of cold wind, and +a whirl of leaves blew against the horse’s legs, startling him. Lilah +controlled him with difficulty. Her hand on his neck, she urged him +forward. + +The wood was bleak, gray, silent again after that brief rush of wind, +and Lilah heard a shrill, treble pipe of frogs in a pool. But where was +Flagg’s dance of gnats at sundown? Spring was here and she could not +watch it with him. She would have to send him away. Truth or pretext, +she would have to send him away.... She thought of the child as a +tide, rising, rising, uncontrollable. This life was within her. She +contained it and was contained within it. Neither in body or soul was +there escape. She was no longer herself; she was implicated, bound up +in, adhered to, responsible for, another self, a self unrecognized, +featureless, without volition, yet powerful, terrible. She was a body +bound by body. Irrevocable.... + +The world had changed. The sun was gone, and with it the warmth of the +earth. The roan was chilly, nervous. His ears flicked back, and with a +whinny he began to run. Lilah thought: “I’ll give him his head and let +him run it out--he’ll come to himself when he’s tired.” Already her +hands were numb, her arms stiff. + +The bridle path doubled through the woods, crossed and recrossed +itself, gaining ten miles by this duplicity. The dark, wet earth, +broken by pools of melted snow, made a tunnel through tangled growth +of trees, very old and tall. A blurred twilight seemed to bar the way. +Lilah bent forward. She could no longer guide the horse. Sensing her +surrender, her fear, he lost his head. + +He left the road. The branch of a tree tore Lilah’s hat off. She +shrieked at him. “Whoa! Whoa! Stop! You brute! Stop! For God’s sake, +stop!” + +She was struck on the back, between her shoulders. A tearing, a blow. +She was pulled, thrown, dragged, face down, in a thicket. She thought, +twisting over on her side: “This is death.” + +A dark pain, like blood, flowed over her breast, and she fell back +again. + + + + +IX + + +There was nothing to do but for Lilah to go. + +Robert came into her room again, pale, with that new look of a man who +has found himself in suffering. + +“I’m going, Robert.” + +Robert sat down by the bed. He avoided looking at her. It was a pain to +look at her; Lilah, with that ghost whiteness, the blue veins showing +at her temples, her hair in two childish braids over her shoulders. She +was like a little girl. At the same time, there was a mystery about +her. She had suffered so. She had had to pass, alone, through a dark, +terrible suffering where no one could follow or help her. Robert felt +ashamed, because his own suffering was so unimportant in comparison to +hers. And yet his own cried out for speech. He wanted her to know that +she had killed something in him; he would never tell her. Never. + +“You can go, if you want to,” he said stiffly. + +Lilah turned her head on the pillow. “You don’t want me to stay, do +you?” + +“Not if you love Flagg.” + +“I do.” + +After a moment, Robert said, “I’ve seen Flagg. He’s staying at +Biddeford. Did you know?” + +“Yes.” + +“I suppose my grandfather told you.” + +“Your grandfather is decent enough to pity me.” + +Suddenly Robert went down on his knees and put his face on her hand. +“God knows I pity you. Stay with me, Lilah. Tell me where I’ve failed.” + +“It’s no good,” she said, “to try. To stay. Don’t blame me too much. I +didn’t know what love was.” + +Her hand stirred beneath his lips, and he got up again stiffly. + +“You must stay until you’re well.” + +“They’ll let me walk to-morrow,” she said eagerly. + +“Flagg wants me to divorce you.... Well, I won’t.” + +“Why?” + +He had not intended to tell her. But the answer was torn out of him, +a physical wrench, as if he had pulled a leech from off his heart. +“You’ve hurt me enough between you! I’ll be damned if I’ll let you +humiliate me. A man who divorces his wife is a coward. You may do what +you like. But I won’t divorce you.” + +Lilah turned on her side, away from him. She could see the sky, a deep, +warm blue, with thin clouds passing over. And a quick flight of birds. +She had intended to tell Robert that she was sorry. Now she couldn’t. + +After a moment, he went out. + + * * * * * + +She left the Point one morning in June. Her trunks and boxes had +gone off the night before. Robert’s motor, driven by the stable man, +Edmonton, was to take her to the station. Robert had flung away up the +beach, followed by the spaniel. Junius kissed her good-by. He permitted +himself only one reproach. “I’m not sure that this is going to be any +better. You won’t like poverty. And happiness at the expense of another +is likely to go stale.” + +“You had Venice,” she reminded him. + +“But I came back.” + +He took her hand. “Are you sure?” + +“Quite.” + +A wave of faintness, something almost hysterical, caused her to lean +against him. “We have to be true to ourselves. Sacrifice is out of +date.... If Robert is wise, he’ll let me go and not care.” + +“Good-by, my dear.” + +She kissed him quickly. + +The motor turned out of the drive, sped smoothly through the forest, +now richly green, and she saw the place where she had been thrown, +where Flagg, late that night, had found her. It was like him to have +arrived sooner than he was expected. Like him, once there, to have +faced his responsibility. Through her illness, he had stayed at +Biddeford, within call. They had not let him see her, but Junius had +played the part, not unwillingly, of messenger; he enjoyed, Lilah knew, +the disloyal intrigue. Any man of spirit, Junius probably argued--any +man of his own day--would have driven to Biddeford to thrash Flagg on +general principles; but Robert had mooned about the house, had sat for +hours with his head in his hands! Junius Peabody’s sympathies were +with Lilah. Lilah, who lay rigid, her figure outlined beneath the +bed covers, her face drawn with the peculiar tension of her will to +conquer. Even death.... He had brought Flagg’s messages with a grim +tenderness and had murmured them to her often when she seemed unable +to hear. Only her lips had quivered, or there had been a faint smile. +Whenever Junius wavered, ashamed of his own part in the affair, he +reminded himself that in no other way could she be kept alive.... + +Lilah shuddered. The motor left the woods, turned sharply into the +paved highroad.... What did Edmonton know? + +It occurred to her that Edmonton was no longer her servant. In the +performance of his duty, he was driving her, as he would have driven a +guest, to the station. + +She straightened herself sharply. Her look became at once indifferent +and haughty. But something was unsteady, out of balance, threatening. +Her hold on life was precarious; she was drifting away from safety, +from her established self. The new self she would have to create +to meet the situation she found herself in was still shadowy; she +must wear a different face.... Love in exile.... The future had no +significance. Nor was there reality in the image of herself, reckless, +dedicated, indifferent, somehow romantic.... + +At the station, Edmonton, swinging her hand-luggage to the platform, +showed an impassive face and asked: “New York, madam?” + +She thought of tipping him and changed her mind. After all, she wasn’t +a guest.... She could not resist saying, as the long train slipped down +the track toward them: “Don’t let Mr. Robert saddle the roan while I’m +away, Edmonton.” + +He flushed and touched his cap. He had heard something! Servants found +out everything. “No, ma’am. Indeed, no, ma’am. I won’t. Be sure of +that.” An astonished, gratified, sly look passed across his eyes. He +handed Lilah aboard with a return of deference, an unmistakable relish. + + * * * * * + +Lilah met Flagg in New York. She went to a hotel, and Flagg stayed at +the borrowed flat in the ’Fifties. She had a few hundred dollars, and +she had brought every rag and stitch of clothing and all of her jewels. +It was, she argued, no affair of Flagg’s. Robert had given her these +things; they belonged to her. She owned a distinguished string of small +pearls, well-matched and unusually brilliant, and, for the more formal +occasions of the season, Junius had given her a small crown of emeralds +which had belonged to Minnie; this, with an emerald bracelet, too +heavy and ornate for wear, had about them the innocent elegance of the +’Eighties.... Lilah discovered her wedding ring among the diamonds and +square-cut sapphires she preferred. She decided to wear it.... + +She met Flagg in the lobby of the hotel and they talked in the +comparative isolation of a taxicab throbbing up and down Fifth Avenue +in a complicated, nervous stream of traffic. + +Their first excitement gave way to a hurried planning. They must, Lilah +argued, leave New York. “I’ve made such a ‘noise’ here,” she said. “I’m +more of a personage than you realize.” + +Lilah expected to follow Flagg to his middle-west university town and +to become an anonymous figure in the background of his life. But Flagg +shook his head. “We’d be better off in New York.” + +Lilah suppressed a sharp anxiety. “You won’t lecture, then?” + +He assured her again that he wanted only to lie on a green hill with +his head in her lap! + +“I can get my hands on three hundred a month. Not much; but we needn’t +starve! If you say, we’ll go abroad. Three hundred a month isn’t to be +sneezed at in Italy.” + +“But you wanted to go on with your work!” + +His interest in teaching, he explained, had lessened as his knowledge +increased. He was beginning to believe that he could do little more +than “shove his pupils off the high road into the wilderness of +personal experience, speculation”; besides, he was beginning to doubt +the value of his own contribution. “When I found you there, crumpled, +covered with blood, apparently dead, I was staggered by my ignorance. +Death, for myself, has always seemed a sort of translation. But +you--flesh I love--There is no solace for what I felt! I want to spend +the rest of my days with my arms around a concrete loveliness, warmth, +life.... Lilah, I’m afraid to go on alone!” + +His desire persisted. They must go abroad, at once. Every day spent +in the city, crowded, humid, was wasted. Lilah had the impression +that Flagg was hurrying to a happiness which might, with delay, be +lost. Impatient, often irritable, he was upset by small details; he +wanted Lilah, enjoyment, fulfillment, immediately. The matter of +passports proved to be embarrassing. Flagg’s honesty would permit of no +compromise and Lilah refused to allow their names to appear on the same +passenger list. They agreed, finally, to sail on different ships and to +meet in Genoa or Naples. + +Flagg left Lilah at her hotel and, alone, went about the complicated +business of steamer reservations. + +If only there had not been this hiatus; the outlines of the adventure +were already blurred; in his arms, secure, the past definitely +discarded, her pleasure in her own audacity would return.... + +She glanced out over the city. From her bedroom, twenty-two stories +above the street, she could see the rivers, metallic, laced with +bridges. She was impressed by her lack of superiority, save only the +elevation granted her by this wall of granite and steel.... Flagg was +somewhere down in that swarm of people, that tossing and scurrying of +humanity.... + +Here, society was out of focus. Her rightness or wrongness was lost +in a conglomerate jumble of right and wrong. She could not comprehend +adultery--a cruel word--betrayal. These things counted only as they +affected a few individuals. Her right to happiness was paramount. +That crowd down there cared nothing, knew nothing, of what she did or +was, what she felt, her success, her failure.... She was struck by the +indifference of the mob, the savage concentration of the individual. +No tragedy, not even national disaster, not even war, could touch +them all! What, then, was she, was any one afraid of? To break a +commandment, to do good, was like throwing a pebble into a pool--a +little hoop of ripples.... + + * * * * * + +Flagg did not come back at once. He telephoned that he was standing +in line at the Customs House. “Have a photograph taken.” “Must I?” +It struck her that it was not going to be simple, this flight. They +might have gone to California, to Cuba! “But we can’t buy _lire_ in +California,” Flagg reminded her. With a hint of impatience, he rang +off. And Lilah, alone again, thought: “I’ll go to Thirty-eighth Street. +There may be an old photograph--” + +She dressed with an odd sense of excitement, of daring. She remembered +the Waterford glass chandeliers; she had never seen them in place. +After all, the house was her creation; she had evoked it. Flagg could +have no possible objection to her going there. For the rendezvous +with that self she was discarding, she wore a gown Elmer Shawhan had +approved of, longer than the fashion of the moment, made of dark +blue and sulphur yellow; her stockings, sheer; her feet, in strapped +slippers, might have been bare. A small hat and a heavy veil, the +perfume she affected, gave her an exclusive, an unmistakable elegance. + +The caretaker admitted her, after a delay, while the taxicab she had +hired waited at the curb. “Mrs. Peabody!” + +Again that look of surprise! Lilah brushed her way in, across the hall, +upstairs. The shades were not drawn and a flood of sunlight illuminated +Elmer Shawhan’s riotous panels. Lilah thought: “I told Robert to darken +this room!” She stood on the threshold in a sort of trance of delight. +She had forgotten how lovely it was; even now, with the furniture +covered, the rugs rolled back, it was a room worthy of respect.... Her +dreams of a little renaissance had come to nothing; her next step was +even less promising. Italy, with a man she could not marry, an invalid +who had abandoned his career for her sake.... + +She crossed the room and became suddenly conscious of voices. Before +she could draw back, or hide, Robert and Grace Fuller came in from the +hall. Grace Fuller was in gray, her natural distinction accentuated +by a clever hat. Lilah saw Robert’s face, flushed and angry. For the +first time in her knowledge of him he was beside himself. She said +breathlessly: “I didn’t know you were in New York! I wouldn’t have come +here, naturally....” + +“I intend to sell the house,” he interrupted. “I haven’t spent a happy +day here.... If there is anything you want, you are welcome to it.” + +Grace Fuller looked from one to the other. In her expression, amusement +and pity conquered embarrassment. “Aren’t you two going to be sensible?” + +“No!” Lilah wanted to run, to fly ignominiously from this humiliation. +She saw how the wind blew; what Robert intended to do; where he had +turned, already, for solace, “understanding.” The whole incident made +life and love seem disgusting, trivial. Flagg could do nothing to erase +the fact of her marriage to Robert. All of their best moments together +were ugly in the light of their present situation. They who had been +intimate were bitter strangers, abashed by the memory of their intimacy. + +She cried desperately: “Let me go. This is abominable.” + +Robert said nothing and she ran downstairs. The astonished caretaker +opened the door and shut it again, with a bang. + + * * * * * + +In the taxi, Lilah conquered her panic. “Drive around the park slowly.” +She needed people, movement, color, to restore her faith in herself.... + +No matter what the world thought, now, later she would be forgiven +if she failed magnificently. New York was charitable to picturesque +sinners. Florence, a villa, herself, wistful but triumphant.... She +wondered whether she could do without the things she had, in a year, +come to regard as necessary. On three hundred a month she would have +to wear made-over clothes; she would have to curb her extravagant +desire for amusing, expensive accessories. She was one of those women +who sense every variation in style, each new subtle trick of elegance, +the sleight-of-hand of the mode. To be inconspicuous and astonishing +had become paramount. Until she met Flagg, she had thought of little +else. Her charm and her pert wit had carried her. She had forgotten +how to think, what to think, since she had long ago discovered that a +worthless opinion spoken decisively passes for cleverness in a hurried +world. + +Flagg would not like her friends, vivacious log-rollers who had +peddled their superficial accomplishments successfully and now called +themselves the Young Generation of American writers, painters, actors, +critics and editors. Lilah enjoyed their ostentatious sophistry, their +good humor and their irreverence. They stimulated her and never bored +her; like them, she was fundamentally restless, unstable, impatient. +Perhaps she was incapable of constancy.... She could never follow +Flagg’s thought, painstaking, honest, uncompromising.... + +The cab turned into the park. On wide, dusty greens children in bright +dresses romped with colored balloons. A procession of motors in a blue +reek of gasoline clogged the drives. + +To be victorious, she must dominate Flagg. He might turn poet or +mystic, or he might be content with sunlight and _fritto misto_. + +She had seen many such couples--lovers who had surrendered +respectability without a struggle, who had relinquished position, who +no longer cared what was said or thought about their affair and who +fought like cats and dogs. She must see that this didn’t happen. After +all, every love, no matter how exalted in the beginning, inevitably +resolved into a struggle against the loss of illusion. So fragile the +threads from heart to heart, so impermanent affection.... Junius had +once said to her that the only happy love relationships were illicit +because marriage harnessed the imagination. He believed in the European +marriage of convenience, a business arrangement, something outside +the emotions. If this were so, Lilah thought, she had a chance of +happiness.... + +The telephone bell was ringing fretfully when she opened the door of +her room at the hotel. She ran, lifted the receiver with a sudden, +passionate recklessness. + +Flagg’s voice, purposefully tranquil, tightened her heart. He began to +say that there would be difficulty, when she interrupted him: “No! No! +I was wrong. Forgive me. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. The slate’s +clean. We’ll go together.” + + * * * * * + +Florence was all a golden yellow in August, dusted with the pollen +of hot sunlight. Flagg and Lilah climbed over the hills or drove in +a rickety cab, house-hunting. They chose, finally, a small villa, +ironically enough named “Villino Sans-Souci,” near the Ponte a Mensola. +It was dirty, but there was a grape arbor at the back, and two very old +cypresses, black, tipped with gold, traced invisible slow spirals upon +a purple sky. Vincigliata rose behind them and in the cypress groves at +sunset there was a constant call of cuckoos. “Legendary,” Flagg said. +“Mournful, and beautiful. We’ll take this. What do you say, Lilah?” + +They could afford it, just. Flagg figured hurriedly on the back of an +envelope. “Rent. Cook. Food and light. Fuel. Not much left for cabs, +Lilah! Or the opera. But we have the view! Turn around, my dear, and +look--” + +Through the arbor, framed in the dusty arch of grape-leaves, they could +see the Dome, those delicate stone shafts, remote, miraculous, the +Tower, the Bargello, and that great black lily, the Signoria, thrusting +through the tumbled roofs of the city. + +“It hasn’t changed,” Lilah said. “What immortal loveliness!” She leaned +against Flagg and let herself sink into her appreciation of him. Robert +would have been more concerned with the plumbing than with the view. +Flagg cared for nothing so long as he could fill his senses with this +old, secretive, sardonic city, this city with bold cheek-bones, short +shining hair, the smile of Gioconda and the eyes of a hired warrior. +Flagg belonged in Florence; there was nothing modern about him; he was +like Leonardo, was perhaps, Leonardo, sent back to question, to advance +a little way, to recede again, like a comet flying down space.... She +turned her head and kissed his shoulder. + +“Perhaps you won’t miss the other things--” + +“What other things?” + +“Your work. Those guinea pigs and test tubes, those farmer boys looking +to you for the word.” + +His eyes, for the first time in many weeks, shut her out. But he smiled +and his arm tightened about her waist. “If no one ever comes here--if +we’re left alone to grow old in our arbor--will you mind, Lilah?” + +“No!” + +They went into the house, and Lilah, with wide gestures, refurnished +it. “We’ll have to get rid of all the furniture. All of it! And those +fearful pictures. Except that one--that’s so bad it’s--positively good! +This room needs Venetian brocade, claret-against-the-light color, with +Sixteenth Century chairs--” + +“But we can’t afford such things,” Flagg interrupted. + +“I’d go mad if I had to live in the same house with a gilded +waste-paper basket,” Lilah answered. + +The agent, sensing criticism, rattled the keys. “The villino belongs to +a celebrated poet,” he said eagerly. He showed his teeth and repeated: +“Most celebrated!” + +“It was here,” he assured them with dignity, “he wrote ‘_Belle Mani_.’ +You know this book?” + +They had come out into the arbor again. And, licking herself in a patch +of sunlight, a little black cat had made herself at home. “Does the cat +go with the house?” Flagg demanded. + +The agent made a violent gesture. “I have him killed! At once! This +poet liked the cats--_everywhere cats_!” He made a terrible face and +waved his arms. “_Shoo!_ Get out!” + +The cat rose, arched her back, yawned and with her tail in the air, +slightly crooked at the tip--a sign of pleasure--went straight to +Flagg. He picked her up. “If your poet liked cats, he has my permission +to use gilded waste-paper baskets.” + +Lilah was seized with a perverse mirth. + +“Spaniels and cats,” she said. But, to Flagg, she refused to explain. +Holding the little black cat in the crook of his arm, he was tickling +her under the chin where a patch of white fur was worn, daintily, like +a bib. + + * * * * * + +In the blazing stillness of an August mid-afternoon, their drowsy +isolation was broken into by a friend of Flagg’s who came out from +Florence on a bicycle and arrived at the gate of “Sans-Souci,” dusty, +jovial and eager, with a quizzical look for Lilah and a shout for Flagg. + +Lilah had been painting kitchen chairs an artless apple green. She +looked up, saw a strange man staring at her and stood, the paintbrush +at arm’s length. This, she saw at once, was to be her first social +encounter. + +She said quickly: “Mr. Flagg is asleep. I’ll call him!” + +“Don’t. Please....” + +She hurried indoors, angry, rather stimulated. Flagg was lying +uncomfortably on the poet’s divan. He was not asleep and his eyes +looked up at her, mischievous, black, bright, more alive than any eyes +she had ever seen. + +“Some one--” she began breathlessly. “Tall, dusty man on a bicycle--” + +“McNair!” Flagg shouted. + +He ran outside and Lilah heard their noisy greeting. She did not quite +dare to follow, but waited for Flagg to call her. Presently he did. +“Lilah! Oh, Lilah!” + +She flew to a mirror.... How pretty she was getting to be! The color +of happiness was over her, warm, golden.... What a pity that all women +couldn’t be happy; so many of them were pinched and gray, shadowy, +unrecognized, unreal. She had never existed until Flagg loved her, +until, she corrected herself, she had loved Flagg. She had had no other +consciousness, since coming to this place, but this.... She went out, +smiling. + +“Lilah,” Flagg said, “this is Gil McNair. Can you manage tea?” + +Lilah gave her hand, sticky with paint, into a large, warm clasp, and +it was then she caught that quizzical look. It was not a question, it +was, rather, a brief investigation. With an upward rush of spirits, the +challenge accepted, Lilah said: “Tea? Of course!” But she threw into +her glance what she would have preferred to say: “Yes! Here we are. +Quite irregular. But quite charming!” + +She made tea on a spirit lamp because she had not conquered the +mysteries of an Italian stove and, so far, she had been unable to +lure a cook as far out of town as the Ponte a Mensola. It was not the +Florence of before the war; Tuscan maid-servants had become aware of +their potentiality in commerce.... The poet’s cups were eccentric; +apparently _il the_ had not been popular at the “Villino Sans-Souci.” +There wasn’t any cut sugar and Lilah had to use cream from a can. +“Aren’t there any cows in Italy?” she wondered. She could hear Flagg +laughing in the arbor, and she felt a pang of jealousy because he could +laugh at something she did not share. To love, she had discovered, +is to be jealous--jealous of everything, each unconsidered, careless +gesture not directly to do with her; when Flagg slept, she was jealous +of his dreams. + +She was glad, hearing him laugh, that he had accepted their situation, +not as if he were making the best of a bad bargain, but with the +positively gorgeous indifference of a man superior to his audacities. +She had not once considered right or wrong--she had thrust aside the +shadow of presentiment, had drawn the warmth of sunlight over the dark +depths of possibility. She had rested for hours with her head against +Flagg’s breast, listening to the beating, rapid, unstable, of his +heart, his enemy, her enemy; she had lost the reality of death in the +living body.... + +The arbor was patterned with the cool, blue shadows of grape leaves; +the sun struck through, white, hot, and lay in flakes on the table, on +the smoothly brushed earth. + +The black cat had wandered in and sat on Flagg’s knee in that peculiar, +feline trance he liked because, he said, it was so “damned superior.” +He stroked the shining black fur as he talked and Lilah, in spite of +herself, watched the caressing fingers. + +McNair took the tray from Lilah. His gestures were quick, nervous. +Lilah discovered that he had done something astonishing, if not +conspicuous, in the war, what, she could not quite make out; it had to +do with “listening gear.” + +“He can hear celestial ragtime,” Flagg said. “He ‘listens in’ on the +Beyond--michrophonic miracle man.” + +McNair laughed. He had big, square white teeth, like tombstones, and +dusty hair worn in a bang. Lilah wanted him to notice her. She felt +that she must look very pretty in her chintz apron, the little turban +of twisted green silk, her feet in buckled slippers. + +McNair accepted tea and drank it greedily, his eyes on Flagg; their +talk was experimentary, the talk of men widely different yet gifted +with an identical passion for the world, the adventure offered by life +to eager men; they liked it well enough to want, honestly, to better +it. Words, names she had never heard, at first baffled, then bored her. +She yawned, but Flagg was not stricken, as she had hoped he would be, +as Robert would have been, with an immediate concern. So she moved to +the bench beside him, slipped her arm through his and let her head fall +against his shoulder. + +McNair, putting his tea-cup aside with a clatter, as if he had only +just become aware of her, said: “You’re going back in October, Flagg?” + +Flagg answered: “No! I’m through. For a while.... I have what every man +secretly desires at one time or another, leisure for contemplation. +I’ve never had time to think. Since the war smashed man’s favorite +image of himself, wearing the laurels of progress, I want to sit +alone with the fragments and make of them what I can, for my own +satisfaction.” + +“For your own satisfaction?” McNair repeated. “You used to believe, or +claimed you did, that man owes his wisdom to man. You once said that +you despised ascetics and hermits.” He glanced around. “Delightful! +Your arbor! But you won’t stay here!” + +Lilah interrupted: “Why?” + +“Ask Flagg!” + +Flagg said: “I claim the right to the one certain beauty--life itself! +I’ve been through the five cycles of psychic hell. I’ve questioned +until I’m sick and tired of questioning. I’ve come to a sort of +acceptance that isn’t surrender--it’s seeing! And if I should tell you, +any one, what I see, know--I’d be damned as a dreamer or an idiot. +I see that science and religion, both, have failed. We still suffer +plague. We still arm ourselves. We still distrust our brother.... But +we go forward. Imperceptibly, forward.... Here, at peace, I want first +to think, later, if possible, to write. It depends on whether or not I +have anything to say.” + +“You won’t stay,” McNair repeated. His face was flushed, and he said +good-by abruptly, almost angrily. + +When he had gone, Lilah said: “Did you really mean what you said?” + +“Yes.” + +“What did McNair think--about--us?” + +“I don’t know. Nothing, I dare say.” + +Lilah insisted: “But he must have wondered--” + +Flagg lifted her face and said gravely: “For God’s sake, let’s be +decent sinners! I thought we had decided to pay our debt in the coin of +the realm.” + +“I don’t know what you mean.” + +“I mean that it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn what McNair or any +one else thinks of us! The only thing that matters is what we think +of ourselves. If you’re ashamed, you ought not to be here. If you’re +sorry, you’re only hurting me.” + +She answered: “We’re happy when we’re alone. But when people come, +we begin to blame each other.” She kissed him, quick, light kisses. +Then her head sank again on his shoulder, and they sat there, clasped +together, staring through the arch of the arbor at Florence, the +towers, the brazen Arno climbing across the plain toward Pisa. It was +very still. A cart went down the road beyond the wall with a tinkle of +bells. The little black cat sat on the table, licking, her tail in a +plate of cakes. + + + + +X + + +The lazy enchantment of their exile lasted through the summer. In +September, Lilah complained to Flagg that all of New York seemed to +have moved to Florence. Whenever she went to town she met some one +she had known during her brief appearance as Mrs. Robert Peabody. She +encountered curiosity but, from the younger generation, at least, no +hostility; she was not certain whether this was an indication of social +emancipation or due, rather, to her own remoteness from the lives, +the activities of these people--she was, perhaps, not worth snubbing! +The older generation was unaware of her; their standards resisted, +obdurately, the pressure of modern opinion. Lilah could dismiss +them because they were “old-fashioned.” But she resented the casual +indifference of her contemporaries; it was selfish, even vulgar; she +had, it seemed, nothing material to offer them! She was bitterly aware +that most of them could have been hooked had she baited her line with +millions. Money, enough of it, meant pleasure, diversion, a sop for the +martyrdom of satiety. She could have lured the fashionable world to one +of the veritable _ville_ in the hills near Florence--jazz on a Medicean +terrace, swimming parties in a marble basin by Mino da Fiesole, a +liberal supply of sporting Italians of the upper class.... Her scandal +would be an asset under such glamorous circumstances. The “Villino +Sans-Souci” was another story. + +McNair came again, bringing a young Englishman, a pianist, a pupil of +Busoni, who played on the poet’s upright. He soothed Lilah because, +without hesitation, he fell in love with her; she called him “silly +boy,” but he was, if anything, older than Lilah; he “adored” women, +professed to have been badly treated by them, to have thrown himself +away, whereas he was quite unscrupulous, lazy and irresponsible. He +played with facility and refused to practice because he seemed to have +been born with a technique. Tall, heavy, he had the typical thespian’s +skull, the profile of a Shakesperian actor. + +He made love to Lilah whenever Flagg’s back was turned. He played “for” +her, he said. Lilah began to believe that she was responsible for the +seductive music he somehow got from that long-toothed piano; she saw +herself in the waltzes of Kreisler, the moon-smitten nuances of Ravel, +the songs of Rachmaninoff. And she was filled with a vague melancholy, +almost a pity for herself, inexplicable, delicious, like the +forebodings of adolescence. She would sit on the terrace with Flagg, +her hand in his, and seeing the “silly boy’s” ardent profile swaying +against the glow of the piano-lamp, she would think tenderly of Robert, +of Junius, and of herself.... She could only relent, apparently, when +she had had her own way.... She squeezed Flagg’s hand. + +Lilah began to know the sort of people she would, in New York, have +ignored. A thin, hawk-nosed, Pittsburgh-born American _contessa_ who +lived nearby called repeatedly, bringing with her a shifting retinue +of cavalry officers; the _contessa_ conducted a sort of matrimonial +agency; she had, she boasted, introduced many “dear, sweet, rich +American girls” to young Italians of title. Lilah suspected that she +lived upon the precarious fruits of gratitude. + +Flagg’s reputation attracted scientists from France, from Germany, +from Rome--he was at the mercy of men who coveted his knowledge. He +was always generous, but Lilah saw him in moods of savage contempt and +rebellion. “You waste yourself on these people,” she said. + +“I know! I wish they’d leave me alone!” But he never seemed to be able +to resist them; she would rescue him from arguments carried on in half +a dozen languages, lead him indoors and make him lie down. He would +look up at her, his face pinched, his lips pale, and with a gesture of +hopelessness, say: “I’ll have to go back, some day, and work! I don’t +know a damn thing!” And once he added, with a querulous bitterness: +“There’s so little time.” + +“But you’re going to get well.” + +“Yes,” he said. “Perhaps. It’s a new idea.... If I do, it will be +because of you.” He smiled. “I’m not used to you, Lilah! I find myself +looking at you, wondering who you are and how you came to be here.... +You’re not sorry, are you?” + +“Not if you aren’t.” + +So they reassured each other. + + * * * * * + +Flagg was not a man who enjoyed idleness. McNair left for Edinburgh. +Save only Don Orlando, a priest who came down from Siena occasionally +to spend an hour in the arbor, and an eccentric Florentine, a sort of +inventor-alchemist, there was no one he enjoyed. He took to wandering +away into the country, on foot. Lilah was left to her own devices. +She tried to convince herself that she was happy. This was what she +had made for herself; she could not question his love; her own was +deeper than she had thought possible--her feeling consumed her. But her +character was unchanged. She resisted, despised discipline; denial made +her intractable. She wanted pleasure, excitement, admiration. There was +danger in the heartless and unstable passion of such men as the English +pianist. She hated herself because this was so. But she told herself +that had Flagg been different, she would have been contented to sit in +the arbor at the Ponte a Mensola, secure in the possession of love. + +Something instinctive in Flagg, out of reach, resisted accepted +social standards. He stood aloof from close personal bonds, even, +fundamentally, from Lilah. He was solitary, but not morose. She never +really knew his failings or his ambitions; his confidences were always +touched with self-scorn, yet he refused sympathy--it was as if he +preferred to find his own way. His feeling for her was identical; he +realized, perhaps, that sex would entangle him, hold him back from +that mysterious pursuit of his. He was not easily stirred by her mere +physical presence; she never felt that he had gone into the adventure +through a desire for gratification. And she was flattered by his most +casual caress because she realized that he was not demonstrative; his +emotions were deep, strong and, when aroused, ruthless. + +But there were moments when Lilah was baffled by his reserve; she felt +inadequate. Her own human, reprehensible sufferings, longings and +jealousies fell back before his impartiality. He had believed in their +right to live together. The fact that she did not love her husband, +Flagg insisted, absolved her. But he had not stopped to consider what +the affair might mean to Lilah; it was demoralizing, she decided, to +ignore the world’s opinion. If Flagg should die, she would have no +resistance. + +Thoughts like these threaded her consciousness; for the most part, she +was lulled by the fact of his presence. Whenever he touched her, she +sensed the immortality of happiness. + + * * * * * + +Coming out of Doney’s confectionery shop one afternoon, with a box of +French pastry, she met Mrs. Sinclair, a willowy figure in gray crêpe, +with enveloping veils, descending from an open touring-car painted +royal blue. + +“My precious darling.” + +She enfolded Lilah briefly. + +“I heard that you’d run off with Putnam Flagg. The Wagners crossed +with you. That witty Wagner girl was too absurd--she said you’d been +flagged. Was that vulgar? How are you?” + +“Awfully well,” Lilah answered. She was sorry that she had worn her +most unbecoming hat and a dress that was much too short for the mode. + +“Of course you came to Florence. Extraordinary, how they all do--people +who break away--irresponsible, brave people! Sinclair and I are so +desperately conventional. We’ve been married fifteen years and neither +of us has ever cast the eye--well, not seriously! Sinclair’s in the +car. Don’t speak to him, Lilah darling--he’d be shocked. Flagg hasn’t a +cent, has he? I don’t see, frankly, why you did it, or what you gained. +You had everything on earth you could ask for, and New York at your +feet. Sympathy is with Robert, of course. He’s enormously popular, and +any number of women are applying.... You aren’t divorced?” + +“No.” + +Mrs. Sinclair turned with a swirl, positively oriental, of draperies. + +“Are the chocolates good here? We’re on our way to Bologna--then on up, +to Paris. They say Doucet’s clothes are inimitable, and I’m in rags.” + +She went into the shop and Lilah, lifting her head, crossed the +sidewalk to the royal blue car. Behind a pair of smoked goggles she +found Sinclair’s eyes staring at her with a sort of panic. “How do you +do?” He gasped, leaned forward, offered a limp hand. “How do you do? +Beastly weather, isn’t it? Where are you stopping?” + +“At the Ponte a Mensola,” Lilah said sweetly. + +“Well, I must say, you’re looking fit.” + +“I am.” + +“What’s May doing? Tell her to hurry!” + +Lilah turned away. The encounter had left her trembling. She crossed +the Tornabuoni, signaled a cab and drove all the way back to the Ponte +a Mensola. Somehow this extravagance comforted her. + +The ride was long and dusty. A stream of cars and trucks, carts and +trolleys, blocked the narrow road between endless villa walls. The +cabman, a disreputable Tuscan in a frock coat and a patent-leather hat, +gurgled and hiccoughed at the horse. She could imagine the progress +of the Sinclair’s motor, climbing the tortuous streets of sun-smitten +hilltowns, rushing across the Lombardian plain, climbing Alpine +passes, on again through France to Paris--in its wake a servile host +with well-silvered palms bent in an attitude of obeisance to American +millions. Lilah knew how Mrs. Sinclair would spend her time in Paris--a +round of the _couturières_, perhaps in the company of a Frenchman, +a rarefied sycophant, dancer, flatterer and debased wit who would +criticize _mannequins_ and gowns, choose May Sinclair’s wardrobe and +profit by her vanity to the extent of a cruise in the Sinclair yacht or +a trip to the South of France in the Sinclair’s private car. + +Lilah’s imagination, like a shutter, opened and closed upon visions of +fashionable America, the people she had known and might eventually +have dominated, moving from Paris to London, from Biarritz to San +Moritz, from New York to Palm Beach. Their houses, jewels, clothes, +pleasures, were rare and exclusive enough to permit them any latitude +of behavior; now that she was not a part of their life, Lilah could be +contemptuous. Except for chance, she would in all probability have been +in Paris, buying the best of Doucet’s collection ... or ... no; at the +Point, waiting for her child to be born.... + +She put her hands up to her face. + +Women like May Sinclair had escaped. Lilah suffered because she had not +been content to use the material at hand--the fabric for the fashioning +of her dreams had always been just beyond reach. + +She decided to say nothing to Flagg of her encounter. She went up the +steep path from the gate to the house. Flagg was leaning on the terrace +wall. The late sun gilded him, so that he was like a figure in bronze. +Lilah called: “You old pagan! I want ten _lire_. I’ve been extravagant.” + +“Ten _lire_?” + +“To pay the cabman.” + +“Lilah,” Flagg said seriously, “you haven’t changed.” + +“But I have!” + +She paid the cabman and ran back to Flagg. “But I _have_ changed! I +needed gloves and bought pastry instead for your tea--black, sticky +cakes with cherries on top. Look!” + +Flagg looked. “Lilah, do you know, I think that cat’s going to have +kittens!” + +They went to the arbor. Lilah admitted that Flagg’s suspicions were +justified; the little black cat _was_ going to have kittens. And Flagg +said: “Damn! I hate having dumb things suffer. We’ll have to make a bed +for her.” + +He went into the house and came back with a clothesbasket and a +blanket. “But she’s not going to have them to-day!” Lilah cried. Flagg +answered seriously that it was just as well to be prepared. These +things upset him; birth was terrifying. “I hope you’ll never have a +child. I’d probably die. Go mad. Knock my brains out.” + +Lilah stroked the cat. Her heart tightened. After a moment she said: “I +won’t have a child.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“That time when I was thrown--” + +Their eyes met. Something flashed across Flagg’s eyes, a fugitive +anger. “Oh. That was it. Why didn’t you tell me?” + +“I couldn’t.” + +“You can tell me anything.” + +After a pause, he added: “You weren’t quite honest, Lilah. I wouldn’t +have gone to Maine if I had known what you’ve just told me. Your +husband has every reason to believe that I’m a cad.” + +“Must we talk about these things? Can’t we forget them?” + +He stooped again over the basket. His expression was not guarded and +Lilah cried: “If you think I wanted to be hurt--if you think I tried +deliberately--” + +Flagg turned away. “We can’t forget these things. But you’re right; we +needn’t talk about them.” + +When he had gone, Lilah wept a little. The warm, sinewy body of the +stray cat comforted her; she held it close, as she would never have +held one of Robert’s spaniels, letting her tears fall on the glossy +fur like drops of quicksilver. If she sat there long enough, she knew, +Flagg would come back, repentant. And presently he came, drawn by her +silence. “I’m sorry, Lilah.” + +She burst out: “You’re thinking of yourself when you ask me not to +divorce Robert! I could, easily, in Paris.” The accusation was turned +adroitly against Flagg. “Am I selfish? Isn’t it, rather, a question +of honesty? Must we go over that again?” Lilah turned her head away. +“I’m unhappy.” Flagg gazed at her with a curious detachment, as if he +were seeing her for the first time. Presently he said deliberately: “If +divorce will make you happy, by all means go to Paris. I don’t know +what the process is, how long you’d have to live there or whether, in +the end, we could afford the necessary expense. But you must, at all +costs, be happy.” + +Later in the day, still smarting under the memory of Sinclair’s +dismissal, she wrote to Junius: “I am going to divorce Robert. Will you +find out from him, for my sake, whether he would be willing to come to +Paris and make the necessary arrangements?” She added, with a flourish +of defiance: “I am gloriously happy.” + +With the letter safely in the post, Lilah felt a return of security. +It was only a matter of time before she could demand recognition. She +dreamed of subjugating Florence; there was opportunity for a clever, +pretty and accomplished woman to have a distinguished “drawing-room.” +She hadn’t money, but she had everything else. + +With this possibility in mind she looked with new eyes at the “Villino +Sans-Souci.” The poet had furnished it with lavish bad taste. He had +had a morbid turn of mind, and perhaps to stimulate his imagination or +in the interests of publicity had slept in a bed built like a gondola, +black, funereal, uncomfortable, and had placed a wooden statue of +Aphrodite in a niche, a sort of shrine before which he had burned +tapers “to love and sorrow.” His drawing-room was a museum of amorous +mementoes, signed photographs of pretty actresses--_Á mon cher! Tua, +Maria. Sempre, Nina_--abominable porcelains, first editions, cushions +and ecclesiastical velvets. His desk, where he had probably written +“_Belle Mani_,” was the largest piece of furniture Lilah had ever seen, +an affair of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, “a battleground for +literature,” Flagg said. “The whole place is like an embalmed scandal.” + +The house itself was old; it had been a _podesta’s_ and bore the patina +of several centuries. “I believe we could buy it for a song,” Lilah +said. She kissed the tips of her fingers. “And I could make it into one +of the loveliest houses in Florence.” + +Her desire for beauty had never got her anywhere. Now she was restless +and dissatisfied because there were too many footstools and majolica +vases in the “Villino Sans-Souci.” A few thousand dollars--only a +few--would transform this wilderness into a setting worthy of her +ambition. She began to haunt the shops along the Borgognissanti, where, +for ridiculous prices, she was offered the treasures of palaces; +Sixteenth Century tables, dim Venetian mirrors, flamboyant chairs, +chests, silver, brocades stiff with tarnished gold threads, faded, +“like sunlight through claret.” Her desire for possession--she was a +victim of her love of these things--was a sort of drunkenness; she made +promises, broke them, had furniture sent to the “Villino Sans-Souci” +on approval and sent back again; she was at once the despair and the +victim of the antiquaries. + +Flagg had no idea that she had in her possession the pearls Robert had +given her. They were hidden away in a hat-box together with the emerald +crown and bracelet. + +One day she took them to a dealer whose shop was on the Ponte Vecchio, +an unpretentious, shadowy room ten feet square. Across a modern counter +upholstered in black velvet, Lilah faced a man who was positively +medieval, lean, dark and clever; he had the delicate hands of an +expert, flexible wrists and pointed, sensitive, critical fingers. The +pearls, a long string, lay coiled on a small cushion, an opalescent +serpent. Lilah had no idea how much they were worth. “I want to sell +them,” she explained. The dealer considered, his hands clasped under +his chin. His offer, in lire, astonished her, but she covered her +surprise with an emphatic shake of her head. + +“Too little?” The dealer’s face became enigmatic. “I recognize +these pearls, Madame. They belong to the Peabody collection. I sold +them--this clasp--to Mr. Junius Peabody, thirty years ago. I never +forget a really important purchase; sooner or later, the most valuable +pearls in the world pass through my hands. I have, besides, a record.” + +Suppressing a feeling of guilt, Lilah said: “The pearls are mine. I am +Mrs. Robert Peabody.” + +“I see. Exactly.... I can sell the string, immediately, to an American +lady who is now in Rome. My offer stands.” + +Realizing that this man was superior to the sort of bargaining usual on +the Rialto, Lilah accepted the offer. The pearls were whisked away by a +clerk. The dealer remarked upon the weather. And the clerk, returning, +paid into Lilah’s hands the sum of seventy-five thousand lire. She +signed her name--once, twice--the dealer bowed without a trace of +animation, and she went out again into the street, a street, a world +transformed, no longer inimical, but hers. A duck of a world! + + * * * * * + +A duck of a world! + +With seventy-five thousand lire hidden away beneath the tissue paper in +an “Annette” hat-box, happiness flowed back over Lilah’s spirit. Her +worldly surface, that inimitable appearance of security, reappeared. +Her manner became decisive, her bearing assured. She found it possible +to smoke a cigarette with her old manner of casual indifference. She +could be Russian without an inward shiver of self-ridicule and distrust. + +She postponed buying what she coveted because, in possession of +seventy-five thousand lire, she could afford to be particular. The +“Villino Sans-Souci” was inadequate. She must have one of the smaller +Medicean houses--she could imagine Mrs. Sinclair saying: “Lilah, +darling! What a delicious garden!” + +With the _contessa_, in a hired carriage driven by a respectable +coachman in livery, Lilah inspected the available houses. Flagg +knew nothing of these excursions. The gates of imposing, crumbling +_ville_ were thrown open and Lilah glimpsed some of the most coveted +interiors in Italy. The demoralizing simplicity and perfection of these +rooms--spacious, exquisite in proportion, frescoed--went to her head. +She found herself living in imagination in a setting contrived by the +most cunning artists of Lorenzo’s day for a corrupt and fastidious +court. Terraces of stone worn smooth, grass-grown, crumbling; basins +reflecting the complicated foliage of live oaks; cypress alleys and +balustrades, the warm, ochre walls of Tuscan palaces, unbroken, without +ornamentation, sharp against the dazzling purple of the sky.... + +The _contessa_ was garrulous; her enthusiasm, her bad and fluent +Italian embarrassed Lilah. She was greedy, over-inquisitive. And with a +sort of officious generosity she wanted to establish Lilah at once in a +_villa_ at Montughi. “But, _cara mia_, it’s perfect! I don’t see what +you expect. You’d better snap it up at once or some American vulgarian +will lease it.” + +It was easy to imagine herself established, with Flagg, in that +ingenuous, expensive little palace. The seventy-five thousand _lire_, +her treasure horde, were an open sesame to the most extravagant dreams. + +But she did not dare to confide in Flagg; something warned her that he +would not approve, understand, forgive. + +The December rains drenched Florence. Valambrosa was powdered with +snow. The Arno, amber, swollen, poured through the city, covered the +mud flats, became all at once a veritable river. + +Flagg was driven indoors. He began, tentatively, to write. The +effort exhausted him. He would wrestle with his enemy, breathless, +contemptuous, until he collapsed. + +And suddenly, for no reason, out of her security, the idea came and +persisted that her happiness was threatened. + +Flagg was ill again. + +Lilah never knew the precise moment when she was first aware that he +might not be going to live. His eyes were frightened most of the time, +although he kept on smiling at her. Noises irritated him. He wanted +silence. He would sit at his desk, writing, into the night, obstinate. +And when she spoke to him, he would shake his head and ask her to go +away. There was something he wanted to do, to finish, before he called +quits. It was absurd to say that he couldn’t work. He could. + +On fine days he sat in the arbor, holding the cat and smiling a queer, +fixed smile that terrified Lilah. When it rained, he moved indoors and +sat, bent, in an attitude which was belligerent and pathetic, at his +desk--that “battle-ground of literature” inlaid with mother-of-pearl. + +At night he would come into her room and lie with his face pressed +against her shoulder, like a child that is afraid of what he might see +in the dark. + +When she questioned him, he was perfectly still. + +And now, she knew, she loved him more than anything in the world. + + * * * * * + +Love, complete love, came because she knew she could not have it. Flagg +was going to die. She had let herself off from feeling, because there +was always time to give way to an emotion that would be so great that +something of herself would have to perish. Now, because there was so +little time, she surrendered to it. She could not dodge facts any more; +she must face them and make of her life what she could with what she +had. Her nature was terrible to her because she was in the grip of a +genuine passion; she wanted to make herself over in time to conquer +Flagg’s reticence, to have him for herself. She had been selfish. She +had taken whatever she wanted, without caring. But she had cared.... It +hadn’t been easy to give up everything and come to Flagg. She wasn’t +superior, as Flagg was superior, to humiliation. + +But now she saw what she had come for. + +She saw herself, little, defeated, having to start all over again. She +was humble, frightened. She saw that she could have nothing without +earning it. And this revelation was like an unendurable light beating +against her consciousness. There was no escape. Because the future held +no happiness, the present was terrible, since it contained the essence +of the thing she would go on wanting all the rest of her life. It was +so precious, so elusive, so beautiful, and so inevitable. + +She could not bear to watch Flagg’s suffering. She sent for a physician +who came out from Florence and was alone with Flagg for two hours. +Lilah waited, her heart fluttering as if she, not Flagg, were going to +die. + +When the two men finally opened the door and came out, Flagg was still +smiling, but it was not that fixed, self-conscious smile Lilah had come +to fear. He seemed relieved. The physician nodded casually to Lilah and +drove away again, in a rickety cab, toward the city. Lilah thought: “He +can’t be a great specialist and come in a _carozza_. I won’t believe +anything....” + +Flagg said: “It’s all right, Lilah. I’m sorry you worried. I’ve got a +chance. Only I’ll have to stop writing.” + +Lilah thought: “He’s not telling me the truth. He’s going to die and +he’s glad of it.” + +After that she felt that everything was against her, even Flagg’s will +to die. If he had really loved her, he would have wanted to live. + +She heard from Junius Peabody toward the end of December. The familiar, +heavily embossed stationery post-marked Peabody’s Point bore her name +and the frivolous address: “Villino Sans-Souci” in Junius’ spidery +hand. Lilah tore the envelope open with a feeling of impending crisis. + +She read: + +“DEAR LILAH: + + “Your letter, the first from you in over six months, contained no + news of yourself. I wanted to know whether or not you had made a + success of your experiment. Society has never been charitable to + women who take happiness they are not entitled to. A few celebrated + women of genius have escaped criticism because their contribution was + superior to their ‘transgression.’ I am not preaching to you. In this + day and generation there are no fixed standards of behavior. I am + only complaining because there is something shoddy, to me, offensive, + in a woman of your quality ‘taking’ life in a rented villa--one of + that pathetic band of outlaws who play at respectability in the + smaller cities of Europe. I admit my part in the affair. But I + somehow had faith that you would send that fellow packing when you + were well enough to recognize his peculiar selfishness. I cannot + resist begging you to consider seriously returning with Robert. He + will, as you request, meet you in Paris on the first day of January. + I am enclosing the name and address of his lawyer there. I will see + that your position, in America, is secured.” + +He signed himself, characteristically: “Junius.” + +Lilah thought angrily: “Hypocrite! He wants me there, because I amuse +him.” + +His own indiscretions had been made palatable, sugar-coated with +secrecy. She was happier than he had ever been in his selfish enjoyment +of women who had had to leave him because he was respectable. He had +spared Minnie’s Victorian sensibilities by carrying on an elaborate, an +“artistic” deception.... + +“I despise men,” Lilah said aloud. + +Flagg glanced up. “Why?” + +“Read this!” + +She tossed Junius’ letter across the breakfast table. + +Flagg’s expression was both contemptuous and embarrassed. When he +spoke, his voice was unsteady. “It seems that your husband is, after +all, going to let himself be divorced.” + +The question of money came up immediately. Lilah couldn’t go to Paris +because there wasn’t enough money. They had spent their month’s +allowance already and the January draft, which wouldn’t come until the +tenth of the month, would have to be used to settle the December bills. +“I could wire for a few hundred. I’ve never told you. This money is +mine during my life-time. It comes from an estate held in trust for my +younger brother who’s out in India. When I die, it goes to him. I could +borrow on the future, but I don’t want to. I never have.” + +“But I’ve got to go. Think, darling, what it means! Surely, you aren’t +jealous of Robert--now.” + +“No.” + +“I’ll have to see him. But it will be formal, embarrassing. The lawyer +will explain things. And before you know it, I’ll be free.” + +Flagg turned to Junius’ letter. “I’m not sure. I hardly think it will +be as simple as that. They’ll urge you to go back. They’ll put up all +sorts of arguments. They’ll make it hard for you. I’d prefer that you +didn’t go.... Later, will be time enough.” + +He got up and came around the table, touching her hair, a caress that +always stirred her to the heart, it was so unconsidered and gentle, the +caress of a friend; it made her precious to herself. But now, in her +eagerness, she drew away. + +“I must go! I want to marry you! Then, you can return to America, to +the work you like. Or we can live here--properly. Be the sort of people +you despise, upright, tipping-over-backward people! But we can always +laugh at ourselves. We needn’t lose our sense of humor simply because +we happen to be respectable....” + +She paused, scared by his look, aware of her failure, but sustained by +a conviction that she was misunderstood. + +Flagg reminded her again that there was no money. “Only a few _lire_, +unless I cable for more.” + +Lilah cried: “But I have some money! Lots of it. I meant to tell you. I +sold my pearls.” She laughed: “Like the lady in the melodrama....” + +“I didn’t know you had any pearls.” + +“They weren’t becoming,” she said carelessly. “I prefer jade, or +ivory--” + +“Were they valuable?” + +“I got seventy-five thousand _lire_.” + +“Good God.” + +Flagg turned abruptly and went to the window. He stood there looking +out into a downpour of rain, at Florence, sodden and drenched. + +“The pearls were mine,” Lilah remarked. She felt herself growing +angry. She felt that she would lose her temper if he pressed her; say +things she would regret. The old self wasn’t conquered. She despised +criticism. She wanted to be thought right. + +Flagg turned. His face was dark again, but his feeling had driven the +look of fear out of his eyes. He had forgotten himself. “You left the +Peabody’s under circumstances that required the most absolute honesty. +You should have come to me with the clothes you stood in. I forgave you +the eight trunks full of finery--after all, your husband had no use +for it, and you, apparently, did. It doesn’t matter, to you, who pays +for the things you want, or whether you are giving value received. To +me, it does matter.... What we did might have been splendid. It isn’t! +I’m as ashamed as you are. Because of these damned, petty things--this +letter, for instance! And what you’ve just told me. The stinking +ugliness of desire and compromise....” + +He got control of himself with a wrenching effort. “You’d better go to +Paris. I’d rather compromise than be ashamed.” + + * * * * * + +Flagg went out and did not come back. She watched him hurry down the +path to the gate, bending his head against a downpour of rain. She said +bitterly: “You shouldn’t have spoken to me like that.” But he couldn’t +hear, of course--the window was closed, and the rain beat against the +ground with a harsh, rhythmic clatter, the noisy rain of southern +countries. + +Flagg disappeared up the road to Vincigliata, into the forest of young +cypress trees. + +Lilah thought: “I ought to feel more than I do.” + +What had happened was too important for concrete, recognizable +feelings. She couldn’t grasp it all at once. She was numb with +misery. She went about the house doing unimportant things with great +seriousness, an exaggerated attention. She put a book-shelf in order +and cleaned Flagg’s study. The dust flew out of the window as she would +have liked to shake out her thoughts, scatter them, get rid of them. + +At ten o’clock the casual servant who came in from a near-by farm +appeared under a _contadino’s_ green umbrella, like a big, wet +lettuce-leaf on legs.... Lilah was explicit, much more so than usual. +She set the table herself, humming, “as if nothing had happened,” she +reminded herself. She had the feeling that if she ignored what had +happened it couldn’t be serious. But everything she touched seemed to +be impermanent; knives and forks and plates had a sort of unreality. + +She went upstairs, frightened by the dread that clutched at her throat. +But she must put off remembering. She would count the money--try to +understand what Flagg had meant about her selling the pearls. + +She counted the bills, laid them in little piles, was relieved by their +ordinary appearance. Surely Flagg hadn’t stopped loving her because +of these little green notes.... She put them away, confident that she +could make him understand as soon as he came in.... It was absurd +for a man and woman in love with each other to quarrel over something +petty.... + +But she mustn’t think of that. + +Flagg did not come in for lunch. The sky was leaden, yellow, and the +rain came down in solid sheets. She couldn’t bear to be alone in the +house. That wet lettuce leaf stumbled down the hill. There was no one +but Aphrodite in her niche, a painted goddess with gilded ringlets and +heavy lids, the smile of a courtesan, the little hands of a child.... +No wonder the poet had turned to warfare for sensation. Things. Things. +Things. And nothing got you anywhere. First, you thought it was this +and then that. And nothing satisfied the you that was personal and +aching. Not even love. For then things like this happened.... + +She thought: “I’ll go out. I’ll feel better if I go out.” + +She splashed down the road and stood, holding her umbrella against the +rain, waiting for a tram. + +Twenty-five centesimi. Cheaper than a cab.... She sat with the dripping +umbrella pressed against her knees and stared at the people. An old +man. His trousers were baggy at the knee and the skin of his hands was +like brown corduroy. A young girl with bold, unwavering eyes stared +back at Lilah; there was an imitation diamond ring on the first finger +of one plump, red hand. + +The city closed around the street; great, drenched walls thrust up, +cornices leaned over; people surged along the narrow sidewalks under +a tossing and writhing of umbrellas; priests, fascisti with curled +forelocks like young game-cocks, like frizzed savages ... girls.... + +Here and there a shop-window was lighted. + +Lilah walked through the square and across to the Tornabuoni. + +She went into a hairdresser’s establishment. A warm, sickish odor, +perfumed, assailed her. She explained to a pale woman in pearl earrings +and clinging black satin that she wanted a “wave.” Madame could be +accommodated because, on a rainy day, there were many cancelations. +Right here.... In this booth. _Subito!_ + +A small, blackish man removed Lilah’s hat. Her hair fell down on her +shoulders and she thought with a stab of pain, acute, physical, of +Flagg’s fingers, caressing, caressing.... + +The marcel irons twirled. Did Madame want pompadour or straight back? +It was becoming fashionable to clip the hair at the nape of the neck, +close, like a boy’s.... It would be very becoming to Madame. + +Did this man love? Every one did, sooner or later. Why was it that the +world wasn’t smitten with madness; would she ever be sane again.... She +fingered the bottles on the dressing-table. Brilliantine. Rouge. Skin +tonic. Pomade. _Mettre cette poudre avec la houppe, s’essuyer avec un +linge...._ + +Sooner or later, she would have to question not only her reflection, +that face, unchanged by dread and bewilderment, but Lilah, the woman. +It wasn’t possible longer to avoid that encounter. She, herself, had +failed.... _Not yet!_ + +“Madame has pretty hair. In French, we say _cendrè_--the colour of +ashes.” + + * * * * * + +She found the English pianist in the drawing-room when she got back to +the “Villino Sans-Souci.” + +“Hallo! I thought you’d give me tea. Beastly day. Where’s Flagg?” + +“He’s not here,” she said coldly. Suddenly she wanted to hurt Flagg. “I +don’t know where he is.” + +The Englishman’s eyes grew round. He made a sound like a whistle. “I +_see_! You’ve quarreled.” + +“Yes.” + +Let him know it. It didn’t matter. Flagg was trying to frighten her.... +She took off her hat and sank down on the divan. “I don’t want to talk. +I want you to play for me. Something strange, ugly. I see now why +modern art is out of balance and discordant and crooked--the world is +sick at its soul. When you’re sick at your soul you don’t want beauty. +You want something clever and horrible, like the evil in yourself.” + +The Englishman’s eyes, always flickering, as if there were little +flames in them, blazed up. His lips parted. He was like a smooth, +too fat faun smoking a cigarette. His eyes appraised her. And, for a +terrible reason, Lilah was glad that she was beautiful. She tipped her +head back so that he could see her throat. + +This man understood women; he pitied them and desired them; but they +never loved him unless they had lost love; he had never known, never +would know, the best of love, because he expected the worst of it. + +Suddenly he jumped up and went to the piano. “I’ll play you the +Saint-Sebastien; I know your real mood is religious, not evil at all! A +woman of your experience buries each amour with a _Te Deum_.” + +Lilah wanted to tell him that she had had no experience, but she knew +that he wouldn’t believe her. Her life with Robert, with Flagg, had +never really changed her; she hadn’t loved Robert, and Flagg hadn’t +loved her; when people spoke of experience she supposed they meant that +dedication of self which is spontaneous, mutual, irrevocable.... + +“Stop! I can’t bear that sort of music.” + +He spun around, seized another cigarette. “Then we’ll talk. I’ll cheer +you up. Poor, lonely, adorable Lilah.” He sat, too close, on the divan. +“What on earth possessed you to fall in love with a man whose mind is +fixed on the primeval atom?” + +Lilah shrugged her shoulders. It was easy to say: “I don’t know! Why do +we?” + +“You ran off, didn’t you? Cut loose? I’ve heard rumors--I beg your +pardon, but things get about a small place like this. Infernal curious, +most people. They like to eat a pretty woman up; crunch her bones. +Now, if you were ugly as mud and fat and forty, they’d call you +‘emancipated.’ Waving the banner of personal freedom and all that sort +of thing.... They’d make you out a martyr to unholy matrimony, meaning +matrimony which is no go. But since you’re young and lovely--very +lovely--they’re tearing you to bits down there.” + +“Are they?” + +“I’m no end sorry for you. Really.” His eyes said more. “Doing all this +for a man who doesn’t appreciate--well, you--” his eyes said. But he +was too clever, too wary, to put the thought into words. + +A bitterness surged up in Lilah’s heart. Six o’clock. And Flagg hadn’t +come in. He might have taken a train to Rome. She saw him in Rome +walking up a street in the rain, wearing that fixed smile, alone. Or +Milan. Another picture. Only this time, she saw him sitting in a hotel +bed-room in his shirt-sleeves.... He might have died, up there in the +cypress grove. He might, even now, be lying on the soaked ground, his +face pressed into the sodden leaves. + +She got up. “I think you’d better go,” she said. “I want to be alone. +If you don’t mind.” + +The Englishman rose. She was too miserable to sense the danger. He +stayed, looking down at her. And then he caught her shoulders, pressed +her against him and kissed her. She could feel the softness of his +body. She shivered, gasped and pushed him away. She hated him. + +“Abominable!” she said. + +“Oh, very well.” + +With a gesture of contempt, as if it really mattered very little, he +got his hat and went out, slamming the door. + + * * * * * + +She went upstairs, followed by the black cat and the only one of the +kittens they had saved. It, too, was black, with eyes like jewels and +an incredibly thin, flexible tail. The cats did not seem to know or to +care whether Lilah suffered, and she wanted them to know; she said: +“You little brutes! Don’t frisk! I can’t bear it!” But they frisked on +the gondola-bed, over it and under it, scratching and leaping, as if +nothing had happened. + +Lilah undressed. Then, in a warm negligée, banded with fur, her hair +under a sort of gypsy cap made of purple chiffon, she went into Flagg’s +room and peered at his things, his brushes, his coats, on hangers, his +handkerchiefs, in neat piles. She touched everything, sensing his dear +person.... She would wait until eight o’clock, and then, if he hadn’t +returned, she would go out, alone, and look for him in those dark woods. + +Eight o’clock came, but she didn’t dare to go out. She got into bed, +instead, and lay in the dark, listening to the rain. She was terribly +afraid. Life was inimical again, and she had lost faith in herself, in +her ability to be pert and to win success with the misty quality of her +loveliness. Accepted things, long-established ideas, convictions, had +failed. There was nothing to go on.... She began, reluctantly, almost +with terror, to look herself straight in the face. She saw an image of +herself, silly, vain, rushing in pursuit of unimportant things. Always +things! And where had they gotten her? + +A motor, turning into the Vincigliata road, cast a swinging light +through the windows, across the walls, across Aphrodite, imponderable +and secretive in her niche.... + +Flagg! + +Her heart stopped. + +They might have come to tell her.... + +No. The downstairs door opened, closed again, and she heard his +footsteps, coming, coming.... + +She thought: “He’s been cruel. I ought to punish him.” But she called +him. + +She saw him in the doorway and summoned her half-glimpsed self with a +passionate and peremptory cry. Flagg hesitated, a dim figure, silent, +remote. Then he moved forward and, quivering, her nerves unsteady, she +felt him leaning down over her. She could not see his face. She could +smell the cloth of his coat, wet.... And with a sudden lifting of her +arms, she dragged him down to her. He had to kneel. His face pressed +into her throat. Again she felt his hair, the shape of his head. He +was warm and alive; he was all of life. How could she have doubted, +questioned, hesitated, when this, this was the answer to everything--to +be near him. + +“I thought you’d never come. I wanted to tell you that I’ll give the +money to Robert, all of it. I understand.” + +Flagg said nothing. He sighed. His body relaxed. He pressed his face +closer against her. His arms went around her.... Lilah could feel the +two cats frisking over her feet, and she thought: “They know. I’m +happy. I’m happy.” + +They clasped each other, for the first time, with that love which is +pity and forgiving and ecstasy. + + + + +XI + + +Lilah went to Paris. + +In a compartment on the Rome-Lausanne express, she sat with her chin +in her hand, staring out of the window at the slow unrolling of the +landscape, fields, towns, mountains, fields, towns and mountains. But +she was conscious of being stared at from the corridor, and it was +pleasant, even exciting, to attract attention, after six months of life +in the country. + +Flagg had not been well, but he had reassured her: “I’m all right. Only +hurry back. I’m going to miss you.” + +How strained and white his face had been when, at the station in +Florence, he had followed the moving train for a way, looking up at her +with a curious, unreadable expression. + +She thought: “He’ll be all right. I mustn’t worry.” + +And the further the train was from Florence--Bologna, Milan, +Brigue--the more certain she became that Flagg was quite well. She +could see him walking up the Vincigliata hill, whistling, swinging +along with the gait of a man who had no enemy. She was comforted by +this vision. The more she thought about it the more she believed in +it. And the memory of his face at the train in Florence faded, was at +length forgotten, since she preferred not to remember. Later, she +promised herself, she would remember. + +But now. Paris. + +Again she was at that crowded, noisy gateway to Paris, that sordid, +ringing, clashing place full of people with bundles, porters with +luggage, soldiers, nuns, tourists, a mad jumble of dingy, dusty, +worried-looking, crumpled people all going somewhere and in a terrible +hurry. Florence, everything to do with her life there, seemed unreal. +How could she have let herself suffer so? How stupid of her! It was a +mistake, dangerous, to concentrate oneself too much; it would do her +good, do Flagg good, to break the thread of their intimacy; both of +them had been overanxious to prove their right to each other. After +all, who knew or cared whether they succeeded? Lilah hurried through +the crowd, refreshed, as if bathed in that cool, manifold impersonality. + +She leaned forward in the taxi, staring at Paris, searching for some +indication of recent wounds. None. None! The streets, shining in a +thin, cold drizzle; a swirl of umbrellas; lights and kiosks; vistas +converging; and that air of brittle gayety, that something precise, +insouciant, perverse--the same! Lilah tapped on the window. “I’ve +changed my mind. The Ritz.” For two days! Why not? But now she could +laugh at herself. She knew that she was ridiculous; a _pension_ would +have done just as well! Only that she longed for warmth and color, the +pageant, not without meaning, of the worldlings. This would be her last +bow before the curtain. And that precarious few hundred dollars cabled +to Flagg after an interval of doubt, of suspense ... her last fling at +luxury. Make-believe.... At least, Robert wouldn’t think that she had +come down in the world! She could confront him clothed in the accepted +garments of his kind, on common ground.... She would wire Flagg at +once: “Ritz. Paris. Love. Lilah.” + + * * * * * + +When she saw Robert crossing the lobby of the Ritz with that vague, +amiable, short-sighted manner, she was not surprised. This was the sort +of thing that was bound to have happened, what, perhaps, she had hoped +would happen. + +“Lilah! Well, I’ll be damned!” + +They confronted each other. Robert flushed. He laughed, offered his +hand, remembered, and said miserably: “I suppose this is shocking. +I’m awfully sorry.” But his question, immediate, with an accent of +surprise, irritated her: “You’re staying here?” + +“Yes,” she snapped. “Are you?” + +“I’m at the Meurice. I’m dining here with the Gaylords, but I can shift +’em, if you say. That lawyer needn’t know, and I want to talk to you.” +He added: “I need to talk to you, Lilah.” + +Lilah considered. “I’ve only just come. I haven’t unpacked. I’m +fearfully dusty.” + +“I’ll wait.” + +Something reminiscent twisted Robert’s face into a sort of grimace. +“Oh, Lord, Lilah--Here we are! There’s no precedent--What am I supposed +to say?” + +And, out of the past, Lilah flung back at him: “Something honest! I’ll +dine with you, of course.” + +An admiring look came into Robert’s eyes. “Here, then, in an hour,” he +said simply. “I’ll wait.” + + * * * * * + +Lilah was prompt. She found Robert, characteristically, exactly where +she had left him. She thought, before he caught sight of her: “This +is my husband.” And she gave him a quick, appraising look, trying +to realize what he had been. She failed. He was some one she hadn’t +known.... He turned, and in the meeting of their eyes there was an +immediate recognition, a searching, reproachful, profoundly intimate +encounter. Both of them trembled and pity ran through them. Lilah felt +as if she could not, under any circumstances, speak to him. + +“Let’s go where we’ll be alone,” he said. “I know a place across the +river--decent food, French--we won’t see any one we know.” He flushed +again. “Oh, my lord--don’t misunderstand me. I’m not ashamed! Only I +hate advertising my emotions.” + +In the taxi, drawn away from him, huddled in her furs, Lilah shivered. +Life had never seemed more of a picture-puzzle; all the pieces lay +about her, and she could not put them together again. The piece that +was missing, the necessary piece--Freedom. It was the answer to +everything. If she could find the meaning of freedom.... Every one +to-day, old and young, cried out for freedom, to put their scattered +picture-puzzle together with, to make it whole and reasonable and +recognizable, something to enjoy. Every one searching, picking up now +this, now that, expedient and finding that nothing fitted, nothing +matched.... Freedom for oneself had been the cry of the generation. +But was there such a thing? Weren’t people, lives, inextricably woven +together, so that one experience involved another, one giving another, +one selfishness another? She could never be free again because of this +man at her side. + +She stole a look at his face. There was something pathetic in his +expression, as if, he too, were groping for the missing fragment, +baffled by the confusion of ideas and morals; pitying her, loving her, +despising her, yet, in spite of himself, understanding her. + +They were afraid to say anything; afraid and miserable. + +The restaurant, Robert’s choice of a place where they’d not see any +one, was half-way down a short, dark street. He had engaged a private +room; before a coal fire burning in a shallow grate a table had been +set for two. The room was small, of the eighteenth century, faded, +crackled and mellow. And an old waiter in an enveloping apron took +Lilah’s cloak with that paternal gesture which is the gift of inspired +waiters, waiters of a certain persuasion, a genius, a _flair_. His +exit was discreet, but promising, and when he returned, with _bisque_ +of crayfish, he offered it as an artist turns a canvas from the wall: +“_Voila!_” + +Robert’s glance was beseeching. You couldn’t disappoint such a fellow +as this waiter; he expected them to be jolly! Lilah felt this, too. A +room so exquisite. The festive air imparted by the _bisque_, steaming +in real Sèvres bowls. Her gown, the last of the trousseau, a slip +of metal cloth, girdled with flat emerald stones set in silver.... +Suddenly, she felt smooth, like the _bisque_, exclusive and desirable. +The walls of the little room seemed to shut her away from confusion in +a world made secure by the tradition of elegance, by the permanence +of all rare and lovely things. She felt again the conviction that she +belonged peculiarly in this world; it was stimulating, just for an hour +or two, to pretend that she had never left it. It was stimulating, +also, to discover that Robert could still look at her as if he found +her the most mysterious and delightful woman in the world. Perhaps he +wanted her back, at any cost--She looked at him with that half-smile +which means: “Do you forgive me?” But she waited for him to speak, to +commit himself, because there was always the memory of Grace Fuller, in +a gray dress and a clever hat.... + +“Lilah,” he said suddenly. He stopped, as if appalled by his audacity. +He stretched out his hand and she took it. They clasped hands solemnly, +with scared looks. And the waiter, lowering his eyes, whisked the +crayfish away and disappeared behind a silk screen decorated in the +Fragonard manner. + +“Lilah,” Robert began again. He couldn’t go on. He squeezed her hand, +held fast to it as if he would never let it go. “Isn’t this a nice +place? Chew told me about it. The _filet_ of sole’s famous--better’n +Marguery.... Lilah....” + +Lilah wanted to laugh. She shook her head, instead, and tears came into +her eyes; it was easy to cry nowadays. She wiped them away with the +tips of her fingers. Then Robert said the one thing he should not have +said: “It was all my fault, Lilah.” + +The waiter came in again, bearing a silver platter with a great dome +of a cover. “_Filet Esterhazy_,” he announced. He looked as if he had +presented them with an heir. + +Robert said: “Ah!” He loved good food. Lilah remembered how she had +grown to wince inwardly whenever he leaned forward at the table with +that look of dedication and rapture, that sort of hovering, like a +gull over a floating morsel. She remembered the way he had of flapping +his elbows, as if he were skimming down, close, to snatch the tid-bit; +only, he never snatched; he ate slowly, with the peculiar relish, the +rapt appreciation of the gourmet. “_Bon!_” he said in a loud voice. +“_Tres bon!_” + +“_Merci, m’sieur!_” + +“You’ll want wine, of course, Lilah--champagne; what d’you say to +champagne?” + +Lilah thought: “Just this once.” She nodded. In Florence they had red +wine, thin and sour, if they had wine at all, wine that puckered her +mouth, the strong, sharp wine of Dionysius. But this--a pale amber +bubble, an eternal spring of levity and carelessness, of love and +daring, of wit and dreaming.... She lifted the glass and a little +light danced on her bare arm, leaped to the table-cloth, frisked and +quivered, a drunken little light.... + +“I remember....” Robert began. He stopped. + +The waiter hurried away, as if he were saying: “One moment! One little +moment! I’ll leave you alone as soon as I can.” + +A perverse notion caused Lilah to say: “How is dear old Grace?” + +She could see the slow, inevitable flush, self-conscious, painful, the +sudden mistiness of his eyes. Elaborately careless, he said: “She’s +awfully well.” + +“Where is she?” + +“Now?” + +Robert drained his glass, set it down again. “At the Point.” + +“Your grandfather isn’t ill?” + +“No.” + +Lilah thought: “I see. He’s going to marry her.” And she felt a +tightness around her heart. + +“Grace is awfully fond of you, Lilah.” + +“Is she?” Lilah smiled. “Are you going to marry her?” + +“Damn it all,” Robert cried. He pushed his plate away with a violent +gesture. “No!” + +“Meaning you are,” Lilah said sweetly. “Meaning, it’s none of my +business. But it is! After all, I’m your wife, my dear.” + +“Don’t be too modern, Lilah.” But in spite of himself, he smiled. +Lilah couldn’t be sure. She smiled back at him while the waiter filled +her glass again.... They were all three playing a game. What if they +should speak what was in their minds? The waiter would probably say: +“It’s late. I’m tired. I want to be at home with my family, reading the +newspaper by the lamp, with my tired feet in slippers.” Robert would +probably say: “I want you, and I want Grace, too. I don’t respect you. +I love you and I want my freedom.” And she would say: “I love Flagg. +But I’m afraid.” Because, it was true, she was afraid; she was at the +mercy of her fear. She could not remember the wonderful self she had +been a week ago, three days ago; it seemed far away, unreal, the self +that had loved Flagg, that had promised to give seventy-five thousand +lire to Robert, the self that had feared nothing, nothing. That self +had fluttered away out of this warm, bright room, away from her body +into the darkness outside and there it was waiting, mournful and alone, +for Lilah. Which was Lilah? This, or that other? + +“_Salade, madame._” + +A plate. A deep bowl. A wooden spoon. Lettuce. String beans, very +green. How did the French do it? And a dressing flavored faintly with +garlic. + +“I’m going into my grandfather’s business,” Robert said. He mixed the +salad thoroughly, tossing and stirring it, his face intent. “Seriously. +I had to do something. I found that sitting in the shade wasn’t enough; +I had to plant some trees of my own. You remember what Dave Harum said +about a dog and his fleas....” He paused to stare at the salad. Then he +said suddenly: “It was a good thing you left me. Good for me, I mean.” + +“Oh.” + +“I was counting on you to make something of me. It’s a damn sight more +fun to make something of myself. A rum world, Lilah. We’re put here for +some reason. I didn’t used to think so. Now I know! I’m not inquiring +the reason. It’s enough to be sure that the lessons we learn aren’t +wasted.” + +“_Fromage, madame?_” + +Lilah looked at the creamy pie-shaped wedge of Camembert.... Robert was +reminding her that she had failed. “_Oui_,” she said to the waiter. She +must not let him sense her humiliation. She must make him see that she, +too, was triumphant. And the image of Flagg, walking by the train as it +pulled out of the station, assailed her. She said: “Mmm! Good cheese! +Try it. Delicious.” + +“I prefer American cheese. They make a cheese in California--I’ve +forgotten what they call it--a rich orange color, finely flavored....” + +“Then you’re glad I left?” + +He looked up. His eyes were startled. “No. I loved you.” + +“Don’t you love me now?” + +The waiter disappeared at the word love. The verb _aimer_ ... _to love, +I love, you love_ ... these people were _amants_, after all. + +Robert got up. He came around the table. Lilah said nothing, did +nothing to stop him. He came slowly, but his intention was in his +deliberate gesture. And Lilah thought: “This is my worst self.” A +wave of pity engulfed her; she closed her eyes. She wanted, wanted +everything Robert could offer her; her mind flew back to the “Villino +Sans-Souci”; she did not see herself in Flagg’s arms, submerged in that +deep rapture; she saw herself, alone. She waited.... But Robert did +not touch her. With a feeling of faintness, she opened her eyes again. +Robert was standing just there, his napkin in his hand, as if he had +been frozen. “You didn’t mean that, Lilah.” + +“Sit down! The waiter--” + +The waiter appeared, very sorry, with downcast eyes, just as Robert +hurriedly regained his place. This time, the talented one bore a silver +tray full of pastries, fat chocolate ones and long, snaky green ones +and twisted ones full of cream, and pink ones upon which a devilish +clever pastry-cook had painted flowers and bow-knots of sugar. + +“You haven’t told me about your grandfather,” Lilah said, in her +special voice, eyeing the pastries as if she hated them. “The green +one--that one--please.” + +“_Oui, madame._” + +Robert answered that Junius was well. “Wonderful old chap! You can’t +imagine how gratified he is that I’ve taken hold. He’d about given me +up.” + +“I suppose Grace Fuller’s responsible?” + +Robert flushed again. He said nothing. Lilah smiled and stretched out +her hand. “Cigarette, please. And don’t frown like that! Why shouldn’t +you marry Grace Fuller if you want to? That’s why you’ve come to Paris, +isn’t it? For her sake. Not for mine! One of the last things you said +was that you’d never divorce me....” + +“Lilah....” + +At last the waiter was gone. They were alone in the room. + +Lilah put the cigarette between her lips and tilted her head: “Light, +please.” And while Robert struck the match she watched him, her eyes +enigmatic. A quiver passed over his face. His hand trembled. “Lilah. +Don’t.” + +“Don’t what?” + +“You’re trying to get at me. God knows why.” He tossed the match away. +“After all, we have things to say that aren’t easy to say. It’s all +very well to pretend that what we’re doing to-night is usual--it’s +wrong, terrible, and I’m sorry we tried it. We’re married. That’s my +ring, isn’t it? You left another man to come here with me and make +believe before a waiter that we’re friends. Friends! Let’s be honest. +We’ve failed at a great undertaking. We ought to be down on our knees +praying for a chance to make good! I’ll take my half of the blame. +Neither of us tried. I loved you. I still love you. I thought I didn’t. +I told Grace Fuller that I didn’t. But she’d be the first to welcome +us, if we were to go back together.” + +He paused, his hands, with the fingers interlocked, pressed violently +together. “There’s such a thing as moral insensibility.... You’ve had +your fling. What has it proven?” + +Before she could answer he went on: “What does that sort of thing prove +to any one? No one will profit by our separation, not even Grace, +because I love you, and she’ll know it.” + +“Happiness--” + +“A chimera of childhood! I’d like to blot the word out of the +language. You were after something for yourself--something ready-made, +something you didn’t have to work for. What you had--me-- Well--I want +you to come back. Try again.” + +“Did Grace Fuller know that you intended to invite me, after what has +happened, to go back where I will always be on suffrance--an object of +suspicion, perhaps of amusement?” + +“I don’t understand,” Robert said impatiently, “why you harp on Grace +Fuller. The issue is between you and me.” + +“But if you promised her--” + +“I sometimes wonder whether you have forgotten that you are married to +me--you behave as if you considered the whole thing an episode, both of +us absolved--I haven’t promised anything.” + +Lilah got up. There was a divan near the fire, upholstered in shabby +yellow sateen. Lilah’s cloak lay across the end, Robert’s overcoat, +his muffler and gloves beside it. She thought: “How domesticated. +Like Robert’s imagination. How can I make him understand when I don’t +understand myself? She felt suddenly tired. The bubble of gayety had +burst, was gone. She had a passing, a poignant regret at the inevitable +bursting of all such pretty bubbles.... + +“If I fail with you,” Robert was saying, “the whole past has been +wasted. You can’t erase marriage by simply running away from it. Or, +like the magician, by exchanging one marriage for another ... a sort of +social legerdemain ... dangerous, because I believe once married always +married.... I may be old-fashioned. I dare say I am making myself +ridiculous.... These things go deeper than words. If I could make you +see what I’ve seen....” + +Lilah wanted to say: “But I don’t love you.” She didn’t dare say it +because there was something she wanted to hold to, a thread, a fragile +link between herself and security. She recognized the ugly need of +security; her own weakness made it imperative that she should hold +Robert off until her own future was certain, until she had found the +strength to admit that other self or to close that self out forever. A +little time. If life only didn’t press you so.... + +Robert followed; he, too, seemed to press close, although he stood +some distance away, his hands still tightly pressed together in a +curious attitude of supplication and misery. “You’re afraid of public +opinion.... At the Point, you have nothing to fear. We can prove, by +the dignity”--he hesitated--“the decency of our lives that there is +such a thing as courage. Both of us will need it, but not because of +criticism; we were both born into a reckless society. You can’t tell +black from white, nowadays! And yet--we’re like ships without rudders, +drifting, drifting in the open sea, all pretending that we’re getting +somewhere. We call it revolt; we call it breaking chains; we call it by +a dozen high-sounding names, ‘reality’ among them. But none of us is +satisfied.” He suddenly pointed at her and raised his voice. “You’re +not!” + +“I am,” she said. “I have love.” + +Robert turned away. His face was drawn. He looked old. He went back to +the table and poured out another glass of champagne. The rattle of ice +in the bucket, the clink of glass against glass, summoned the waiter +who re-appeared, blinking, as if he had dozed off behind the screen. +“_M’sieur?_” At once he began to clear the table, his sleepy look +giving way to a half-smile, as if he were thinking of the embrace he +had probably interrupted. But he wanted to go home. It was ten o’clock +and his feet were tired. + +“Let’s go somewhere,” Robert said angrily. “We can’t talk here. And +I’ve got to convince you--” + +He did not glance at the bill but paid it with the indifference to +other people’s honesty which characterized him. + +“I have convictions,” he said in the cab. “I’m not the flaccid fish +I appear to be. There was a time when I approved of men, and women, +too, smashing down every door that kept them from experience. It was +exciting to watch the new generation kicking convention in the face. +It cleared things up, for a while. I foresaw a new race of straight +thinkers, purged of fear. What you did didn’t shock me. It seemed +necessary--” + +He turned to her, trying to read her face in the uneven flow of light. +“Where’ll we go? We can’t ride around Paris all night.” + +“Let’s dance,” she said. + +“Dance?” + +After a hesitation, a silence she could not read, he rapped on the +window and ordered the driver to take them to a club in the Bois. Lilah +thought: “This will give me time.” + +At the club, a smart restaurant given over to a jazz orchestra and +a dancing floor, food had taken second place. Lilah was stimulated +by the rush of waiters, the whirl of dancers, the cascading crystal +chandeliers, the monotonous and passionate rhythm of the music. +Florence, the “Villino Sans-Souci” were part of a dream. She had +dreamed of the melancholy weeks of rain, the somber, suggestive call of +birds in the cypress groves. This was being awake. Her body came alive. +She felt herself swaying to the provocative melody as Robert frowned at +a card. “What’ll you have, Lilah?” “Anything!” While he ordered, she +let her cloak slip away from her bare shoulders; instinctively, she +fell into the attitude of fashionable unconcern. “Anything.” The rite +of dining was lost in the need to dance. People came here to indulge +their senses in the barbaric measures of a simple people unknown to +them; the negroes, perspiring, hysterical, carried beyond themselves by +their success, swayed, jerked, stamped, shouted. Their leader, holding +a violin at arm’s length, played a melody; the voice of the instrument, +thin, sweet and penetrating, rose above the relentless tom-toming of +the drums, the frantic unceasing blare of horns, an accompaniment +soulless and exciting.... In a pool of light, revolving, the dancers +seemed beyond themselves. Other dancers, revolving, moved in the +mirrors, silent, remote, like a company of ghosts.... + +Robert said politely: “Will you?” + +They rose. He clasped her with a sort of shiver, almost a reluctance, +and they were caught by the tide, whirled and buffeted. Lilah’s face +was pressed against Robert’s shoulder. He noticed again the faint and +seductive odor of sandalwood; he sensed the peculiar flexibility of +her body--she had always seemed to be both fragile and powerful. He +saw her eyes, wide with excitement, lifted to his face, scrutinizing +him--did she love or hate him, or was she only trying to decide whether +she could, after all, live with him again? “Wonderful music.” Robert’s +clasp tightened. And he felt a deep pity, for her, for himself, for all +these foolish, fatuous, bewildered people twirling around a polished +floor in each other’s arms. “Yes, wonderful,” he said. + + * * * * * + +At their table again, confronted by a chafing dish in which chicken +and cream and mushrooms bubbled energetically, Robert remarked that he +hadn’t any appetite. But Lilah had. “I haven’t been anywhere; I haven’t +seen any one, or done anything, for six months.... I’m really enjoying +myself. Am I wicked?” And she held out her plate. “I’m starved. +Wolfish! What’s that they’re playing? We never hear anything in Italy +except Neapolitan love songs and the ‘Merry Widow’ waltz. Jazz ... +after all ... it’s my native music. It goes to my head.... You dance +better than you used to, Robert....” + +She glanced up. Her expression changed; a look of panic flashed across +her eyes. “People I know--” + +A flurry of women, slim, bare-armed, in the simple gowns of the +period.... Aureoles of hair, short, frizzed.... Make-up.... The +fashionable drawl of the young New Yorker.... + +“Lilah! Robert! Of all the cool ones! Honeymooning in Paris.... What’s +the plot? We thought you two had parted forever! Lilah, where’s the +villain? Did you park him in Florence? What a lovely dress.... Poiret?” + +Chairs were brought. Three amiable and vivacious Frenchmen were +presented to Lilah, to Robert. Bare shoulders, long white arms, +manicured finger tips, a medley of perfumes, cigarette smoke.... “Have +you been to--” “Have you seen--?” Talk crossed talk. Lilah, on her +guard, but eager, eager, as if she were again drinking champagne, +tasting the little golden bubbles of gayety. Poor Lilah! Robert pitied +her and understood her; but more than ever he wanted her, because he +divined, beneath the fixed and purposeful animation of her face, her +profound confusion. + +The music began again after a pause no longer than a heart beat, and +Lilah whirled away in the arms of one of the Frenchmen. Robert rose +politely and claimed the girl at his right, a slim, arrogant young +thing with sharp shoulder-blades and shingled hair; she had the misty, +brushed-in eyes of an Oriental, the lips of an odalisque. “You don’t +remember me, do you? I’m Marian Forsythe--I live near the inlet; we can +see your house on clear days. I know your grandfather. Wonderful music, +isn’t it? I’m over here with the Careys. Isn’t Paris awful in winter? +We’re going to Algiers next week. I like to run away from things, don’t +you? I get bored so easily.” She twisted a little in his arms. He felt +her hand, sharp, nervous, against his shoulder. “I must say I think +Lilah’s a sport. She tried it out, anyway. I suppose she liked you +best, after all. If more people were sensible about such things....” + +Robert interrupted sharply: “You don’t know anything about it.” + +He had an hysterical desire to shake her. If men didn’t protect girls +like this against their own ignorance, the world would be better off. +“I’m getting to be a damned reactionary,” he thought. “It may be +progress, it may be transition--whatever it is, I’m out of it.” + +He was too angry to dance, but Marian Forsythe was inexhaustible. +“Don’t be a grouch,” she advised him sweetly. “Lilah’s perfectly happy +with Captain Romain. Let’s waltz.” + + * * * * * + +It was past three o’clock when he succeeded in getting Lilah away. The +little group waited beneath the glass and bronze porte-cochère of the +restaurant while a carriage-man in a white rubber overcoat pursued +taxicabs, shrieking upon a tin whistle, vanishing and reappearing like +an energetic ghost. A thin drizzle fell aslant the somber shadows of +massed chestnut trees, tiny, broken splinters, glass-like, shivering +out of a black sky. The women huddled in their wraps, their faces +covered, their feet, in delicate slippers, exposed to the rain, to the +sharp wind that whipped their floating chiffons about their ankles. +The men were still fresh. Only Robert was tired, tired and childishly +disappointed. Everything--Lilah’s eight months away from him, his rage, +his love, his idealism, all of it was stupid, futile, because of these +people and their casual worldliness; as if suffering and loneliness and +pride and longing were inconsiderable, as if nothing were real but the +things he had grown to despise. How on earth could he make it clear to +her that there could be no satisfaction for either of them until they +had discharged their duty.... And, suddenly, he was too tired to try.... + +That ghost of a carriage-man came panting back with a taxicab, and +Robert selfishly took it for himself and Lilah. The others would have +to wait. He hated them.... Lilah leaned against him. “I’ve had such a +good time, Bobsie. I didn’t realize how starved I’ve been.” + +“You forget--you haven’t told me anything about yourself.” + +“Must I? Now? It’s so late.” She yawned. “I’m so sleepy!” + +Away down the boulevard, like a pale new moon, Robert saw the Arc du +Triomphe. An irrelevant thought came to him. Even heroism was futile. +Great gestures. Wasted. That soldier, unknown, who was buried there, +wouldn’t he have been better off in his orchard, his shop, his palace? +But this had nothing to do with Lilah, with himself. He pulled himself +together. “What do you want me to do? I’ve got to know.” + +“Can’t we talk to-morrow?” + +“One thing I promise: If you decide to come back, I’ll never question +you. I’m not magnanimous. I realize that you would hate me if I made +you feel that I had forgiven you.... We’ll consider the past eight +months erased.” + +“Not erased! Mine!” + +“As you please.” + +They sat very stiffly, scarcely breathing, not looking at each other. + + * * * * * + +“Telegram for you, madam.” + +“For me?” + +Lilah took the thin envelope. Yes. “Mrs. Robert Peabody.” She got into +the elevator. Two men and a woman stood there, laughing, while the car +soared up--one, two, three--_Troisième_! + +“Madame.” + +She did not open the telegram until she had lighted the light by the +bed and had thrown aside her wrap. She kept assuring herself that Flagg +had answered her wire. Some such message as: “All well.” Or: “I miss +you.” + + “Advise your immediate return. Major Flagg seriously ill. + + “BACCI.” + +Bacci! Who on earth was Bacci? Her heart contracted, expanded again. +The doctor. That man who had come out to the Ponte a Mensola in a hired +cab.... She sat down, trembling. Her hands shook so that the thin paper +envelope rattled. + +“Seriously ill.” + +Dying. “Immediate return.” + +She thought: “While I was dancing.” + +She began to undress. She tore the fragile tissue because she hated it. +She wanted to destroy the fact, to blot out the visible evidence, strip +naked. She heard herself sobbing.... A curious, unfamiliar sound, as if +some one else were sobbing in another room. Her eyes were dry. She took +her hair down and placed the pins in a neat pile. She must start at +once; she must get to him. “Because,” she said aloud to her reflection, +“I love him.” Now, she knew, Flagg wouldn’t believe her. If she got +there; if she was in time--something about her would show him that she +had forgotten, that she had betrayed herself, and he would say: “I +never believed.” And he would go away, without her. That seemed the +most terrible possibility of all--that at the end his eyes might shut +her out.... + +She glanced at her watch, wound it carefully. “I’ll bathe, dress. By +that time it will be daylight and I can make arrangements.” + +But when she was dressed, her veil adjusted, everything packed, it was +still dark. She threw the window wide open and leaned on the sill, +conscious of a cool current of air, a dampness rising from the wet +pavements. A single pedestrian down there crossed the street at an +angle, wavering, as if uncertain of a destination, and she thought: “I +am like that.” The night is so intimate. She was alone with the night. +Paris seemed a little place, all the lives gathered under that roof +of darkness, all the lives helpless, pathetic in sleep, their defenses +down. “I am alone.” Not since her father died had she been so alone. +And she was afraid, afraid of death, of what she might be going to see, +of the way that doctor would look at her, of Flagg, struggling with his +enemy, alone. Every one was alone. Alone and afraid. She felt suddenly +that she could not go to Florence. She would tear up the telegram, +pretend she hadn’t heard, and they would wire her that it was over, +Flagg was dead.... + + * * * * * + +But even then the sky seemed to deepen, to become more dense, blacker. +And a shaft of light sprang to the apex, opened, like a fan. Dawn. + +Immediately there was a stir in the city. A stir of sparrows in the +eaves. A stir of little, skulking people in the alleys. A stir of smoke +from innumerable chimneys. + +Lilah got to her feet. She was shivering. Because she saw that if she +kept Robert off, prevaricated, perhaps promised him that she would +return, there would be a way back, out of that other darkness, later.... + +But Flagg was in Florence, alone. She saw him, lying on his right side, +with his arm under his head, struggling silently, not saying a word--as +if he and his heart crashed together, like two dark, insane men on +horses, tilting, splintering against each other, again and again. + +She ought to go to Flagg, because she loved him. Why had God made her +afraid of ugliness? Flagg was ugly because he was suffering. If she +could only be spared! If only she didn’t have to go! + +She went to the telephone. “What time is it?” + +She had meant to ask about trains. “_Cinq heures et demie, madame._” + +She put the instrument down again and sat on the bed, rocking back and +forth with her arms folded, as if she were trying to put her thoughts +to sleep. The room was still dark. The windows were gray. A hum rose +from the streets, a silvery clink of chains along the wet asphalt.... +She was envious of any one going anywhere.... Only not to be herself. + +For an instant she was in Florence; she could smell the damp plastered +walls of the house; the odor of wet stone and moss and verbena from the +garden; Flagg’s pipe. A pang of memory. Herself, dragging Flagg down to +her. The feel of his hair, furry, cool. + +“I love him so!” she said again, aloud. + +But to be poor. To be back where she had started, only weaker. A woman +who couldn’t do anything, a fool, a pretty fool. + +If Flagg died, he would never know that she had promised Robert.... + +Then why not lie? + +Because she couldn’t. + +She was afraid of life itself. She wanted to hide behind pretenses, +behind beauty, behind her own charm, behind what Robert offered her. +But she would have to go to Florence and watch Flagg die. Something new +and wonderful was being born in her--that other self was thrusting +up, like a plant, like the beginnings of a great tree, through the +frightened Lilah that crouched on the bed. + +There was no use in going back to the Point, to the warmth of that +fireside, because she had never believed in it; it had never, from the +beginning, been hers. + +The only thing that had ever happened to her that belonged wholly to +her was that moment in the dark when Flagg had sighed against her +breast and the cats had frisked over her feet. That moment was hers. +She had made it. She had created it out of pain and longing and honesty. + +It was time that she stopped pretending. + + * * * * * + +She wrote hurriedly to Robert: + +“MY DEAR ROBERT: + + “Thank you. But I must go back to Florence. You have been very kind. + Later, if you want a divorce, I will do everything to help you. I am + leaving your grandmother’s emerald crown, the bracelet and some money + in the care of the hotel management, with the understanding that you + will call for them and identify yourself. The money I got for the + pearls. I was foolish and wrong. But I can’t buy them back for you. + I’m sorry. + + “LILAH.” + +She addressed the envelope and sealed it. She felt very small and +unimportant, burned out, dry; she must look, at last, definitely old. +She went to the telephone again, and, this time, she asked about trains. + +The compartment was crowded. People kept popping in and out, asking +questions, shouting, losing their heads, kissing noisily. “_Au ’voir! +Au ’voir maman!” “Mignon!_” “Here’s your bag. And the fruit. I’ll +put them here.” “Take care of yourself.” Anxious faces, detached, +drifting along the platform, looking in or looking ahead, eagerly, +as if everything counted on their getting somewhere. Here was life +again--so terribly important and silly! Lilah sat by the window, her +veil thrown back, staring out. She half expected to see Robert, pale, +distraught, determined, searching for her in the crowd. “Here you are!” +And it would be taken out of her hands. He would make her turn back; he +would make her see that what she had intended to do was wrong. Robert +didn’t come. An Englishman in a trench coat with shabby shoes searched +and searched for some one. His eyes were like a dog’s and his pinched, +brown face was puckered with longing. At last he saw whoever it was. +“_There you are! Hallo! Just in time!_” And he leaped into one of the +compartments with a bound.... Life was such fun for the living, for +those who believed in it.... + +The train was moving. A telegraph boy rushed past, shouting: “_Madame +de Lattre!_” But no one paid any attention to him. The Englishman +leaped down again, his face very red, his eyes afire, and snatched off +his hat. “_Good-by! Good-by!_” Steam. A flood of sunlight. Darkness +again. + +“Would madame object?” + +And the little Frenchman in the corner of the compartment got up, +stepped politely but firmly over every body and closed the window. + + * * * * * + +It was raining when the train drew into the Santa Maria Novella Station +at Florence. Dusk was shutting down, blotting out the towers, as if +snuffing lighted candles; one by one they disappeared. Lilah had been +closed in a compartment with four soldiers, noisy, self-conscious +_bersaglieri_ who had angled for her attention all the way down from +Bologna. She had sat like a stone, with her eyes lowered. One of the +soldiers had kept looking at himself in a little mirror; he combed his +hair with a small, steel comb and smoothed his eyebrows. He wanted her +to admire him. Whenever he said anything, his black, polished eyes +rolled in her direction.... + +The train seemed to disgorge its passengers; it was like a long, spiney +dragon vomiting people. People spilled from the open doors, mingled +on the platform, crashed together--and through it all porters bawled +“_facchino_!” One of them snatched at Lilah’s bag, her coat, her +umbrella, angrily, with determination, and rushed toward the cab-stand, +shoving his way through the crowd. Lilah cried, “Don’t hurry!” But +he paid no attention, because, if he hurried, he knew he could get +other customers and more pennies. A row of cabbies had backed into the +square; they snapped their whips and shrieked at Lilah as she hurried +after the implacable porter through the rain. Everyone was conspiring +to get her to the Ponte a Mensola ... if only there hadn’t been any +cabs, a delay, somehow.... + +She tipped the angry porter and the cab jerked forward, bouncing over +the cobbles, bouncing, bouncing. The cabman’s umbrella dripped on +Lilah’s feet. Had it been raining for five days? The rain frightened +her; it was sullen and unkind, a purposeful torment. Puddles bubbled, +the sidewalks were covered with tiny silver explosions and the great +eaves poured out amber floods that gurgled in the gutters. And now it +was dark. + +“Seriously ill.” + +Was Bacci with him? Who was with him? What should she do? She asked +herself suddenly and sharply what she should do if she found him dying? +And at the thought, she wanted the cabman to say that he couldn’t go +on. She wanted some one to keep her from what she must see and do. But +the cab jolted forward, turning corners recklessly, clattering over +car-tracks, rolling smoothly, unexpectedly, on stretches of asphalt. +Lilah stared out at the people and the lights, at faces caught and +fixed in a brief immobility. She tried not to remember what was so +precious and terrible. Yet her thoughts were unconquerable, rapacious; +they fastened on her consciousness, and at last she sank back, defeated. + +Love. + +The word challenged her. She struck it away. She beat it back. It +seemed to her that from the beginning she had been a prisoner, a woman +too conscious of herself, tormented by herself, fascinated by herself, +like that coxcomb of a _bersagliere_. If she could escape from herself, +she might find what she craved, the freedom she must have or--But when +you needed to know these things, you were too selfish, too happy to +know them! When you were happy, the debt piled up and you were asked to +pay it when you no longer cared. + +The rain, incessant, indifferent, slanted out of a black sky.... A +tram, brilliantly lighted, passed with a rumble, and Lilah glimpsed +a row of people, unconscious of her, laughing and talking. A baby +pressed its nose against the window spangled with big, white drops, +like quicksilver, and the baby’s nose was flattened, pressed out of +shape ... the tram passed, and Lilah was alone again in the darkness of +the cab. She began to listen, attentively, to the clop of the horse’s +hoofs on the wet pavement, as if, absorbed in that rhythmic, hollow +sound, time would stretch out, and she would never, never arrive at her +destination.... + + * * * * * + +The cab lurched. They were on the dirt road, turning across the bridge, +beginning the sharp climb ... a light in the window! + +“Hurry!” she cried out. + +She stood in the rain, her hands shaking, to pay the cab man. He swung +himself down, grunting. It was a long drive out from the city on such +a night, and his horse was tired.... He struck a match and scrutinized +the coins Lilah gave him. What on earth was one supposed to tip; +he looked disgusted--she gave him an extra five lire and he thanked +her, as if he had been cheated and taken advantage of by a foreigner. +“Good-night.” + +Lilah opened the gate and stumbled up the path between the cypresses. +The great pointed trees, so old, so quiet, so superior to the brief and +unimportant tragedies of men, shook down a heavy splattering of rain.... + +The door opened. A strange silhouette against the light.... + +“I have been expecting you.” + +“Can I see him?” + +“Yes.” + +She searched this man’s face. Behind glasses, his eyes were curious +and tender. “I’ll take off my things. I’m wet and cold.” He seemed +to be bowing, standing aside to let her pass. She went upstairs and +the doctor followed, quietly, as if there were no hurry. No hurry at +all. This struck her as ominous. But she did not dare to ask how Flagg +was. Something prevented her from questioning the doctor, from, even, +looking at him. At the top of the stairs she paused, stricken with +fear. “Which--which room?” + +He pointed. “In there.” + +In his own room! She turned to her door, opened it, went in and faced +her mirror. It seemed necessary to remove her hat, to go in to Flagg +hatless.... + +She powdered, rouged, touched her lips with a perfumed stick of carmine +paste. + +In the hall, the doctor was waiting, his hands in his pockets. + +“_Signora_,” he began. + +Lilah threw out her hands. “No. Don’t tell me. I can’t bear any more. I +want to see him.” + +She pushed him aside and went in. + +How tall he was. She had forgotten, in five days, how tall he was. His +head, dark, round, rumpled, was deep in the pillow. Some one had put a +newspaper over the light. + +For no reason, with a rush of feeling, she was proud to be coming back +to him. It was all right. She was safe. She had been decent. She had +done what he expected of her. Now, perhaps, he would let her into his +eyes.... + +She tiptoed. She stood over him.... Asleep. + +She touched his hand. + +He was mischievous in sleep, a satyr again, smiling.... + +“Signora.” + +Suddenly she turned and ran back, away from the bed. Her legs moved +strangely; her arms jerked. “I can’t bear it.” Yet he was beautiful, +beautiful in death.... + +“He died an hour ago, _Signora_. I am terribly sorry. I did +everything--possible.” + +Through a burst of tears, uncontrollable, humiliating, an agony of +tears, Lilah cried: “I’ll go back to-morrow and look at him.... Not +now! Don’t ask me to, now! Is he dead?” + +The doctor nodded. “An hour ago,” he repeated. + +Lilah went downstairs. The doctor had been sitting in Flagg’s chair +by the desk and a cigarette still burned in an ash-tray. He had been +reading some of those scattered sheets of manuscript, Flagg’s last +work. Now he stooped and gathered them up, without self-consciousness +or apology. “A remarkable mind,” he said. + +Lilah huddled in a corner of the divan, dabbing at her eyes with a +handkerchief. She shivered. Her teeth knocked together. Yet behind the +atrocious confusion of her thoughts she was grateful that she had not +arrived two hours sooner. Another idea fought to the surface, seemed +to explode in her brain, to shatter her--she was alone. She had lost +love.... And she saw herself, night after night, endless, identical +nights, lying in her bed, her body rigid beneath the bed-covers. +She had so little to remember and so much time to remember in--her +experience reduced itself to that one victorious moment when Flagg had +loved her without question--and there was no comfort in remembering.... + +“I cannot offer my sympathy,” the doctor was saying, “in the usual +terms. I understand so well what it means to find oneself alone, the +physical self cheated of the comforting reality, the spiritual self +unaccustomed.... Later, a week, a month, a year, it will be more +difficult for you. Then, suddenly, you will find relief--in work, new +interests, another love.” + +“Don’t!” + +He spread out his hands. “Inevitable! This man has gone. But you +remain. You must progress. Your education, if you will permit me to +say so, is not complete. His, I dare say, was....” + +He put the typewritten pages back on the desk. “Tell me about him.” + +He leaned forward, offering a curious, leather cigarette case. “You +smoke?” + +“Yes.” + +She saw his hand as he held the match for her, a hand at once sensitive +and acquisitive; there was a large ring on one of the fingers, and +Lilah thought: “How Italian!” + +“You’re shivering. Give me your hands. Steady now! You mustn’t let go, +_signora_. It’s devilish hard to pull oneself back.” + +“You speak English very well.” + +“My mother was English. But I was born in Persia and educated in +Germany. Ah. Your pulse is better. Breath. Deep. Deeper! That’s it. +Now, smoke? Later, I’ll get some coffee for you. I let the servant +go. But I have made myself very much at home here.... I used to know +your poet. Before his exile, he was an extravagant host. A charming, +innocent fellow who enjoys his evil reputation. He is, actually, +religious, but he is ashamed of his inclination and attempts to deceive +us with abominable clap-trap.... You’re all right. All right.” + +“You’ll stay here to-night?” + +“Of course.” + +“It is very kind of you. I can’t help shivering. Something in me is +whirring--like a wheel--” + +She had to try, at least. She was ashamed to shake and chatter before +this stranger. He drew up a chair and sat before her, with his elbows +on his knees. Then, for the first time, she looked at him. He was short +and had ginger-colored hair and a ginger-colored beard streaked with +gray. His face was lean; the skin was dry and tight, drawn over the +bones so that you saw the structure, the modeling, extraordinarily +precise and fine. His eyes were the color of moss agates, small, +brilliant and inquisitive. + +“I think I can sleep,” she said abruptly. + +Her lids were heavy. She stopped trembling and yawned. Her head fell +back against the cushions. She felt the doctor’s eyes, appraising her, +but she could not meet the attack. Nothing was left of her audacity. +This drowsiness was like a drug. And little by little consciousness +of what had happened slipped away. She would start, gasp, reach out +for that certainty, only to have it evade her, to have it submerged +in great waves of sleep.... She struggled to recall what it was that +needed remembering, what it was that was gone.... Nothing remained but +the face of the doctor, thrust forward, still and absorbed. Suddenly it +was jerked away and she sank down, down, into sleep ... for hours. + + * * * * * + +She woke again. It was dark. The windows showed, black squares, save +one, where the lamp was reflected, seeming to burn steadily and +brightly both within the house and without. The doctor had not moved. +“How long have I slept?” + +“About three minutes.” + +“Oh.” + +Then she remembered. Flagg was gone. She would never again feel his arm +beneath her head, the tightening of the muscles in his shoulder, the +weight of his sleeping body against hers. + +She sat up. And instantly the doctor got to his feet. “I’ll make +coffee. Wait. Don’t move.” + +He was gone. What a strange man. What did he think of her? Whom did he +imagine her to be? Would he question her? What would happen, now? + +She went to a mirror and stared at herself, surprised to discover that +she was the identical Lilah; again, she sensed a peculiar, penetrating +delight in the witty outlines of her nose.... + +Strange, that in moments of tremendous meaning, meaningless things +demanded attention. She was more aware of the things in the +room--chairs, tables, ornaments--than of the body upstairs. The +chairs were somehow strange and terrible at that hour--they were like +listening people, spying people, ready to say in sharp, unnatural +voices that it was late--turn out the lights ... let us sleep, let us +dream in the shadows, our dark, mysterious dreams.... + + + + +XII + + +The days that followed were too crowded to hurt very much. A procession +of strangers came to the “Villino Sans-Souci”; Lilah was questioned, +with respect, with pity, with impudence, with disdain. She discovered +that she knew nothing of Flagg’s family, his affairs. Cables were +dispatched to his bank and, after a delay, a dry, unemotional and +explicit reply was received, not by Lilah, but by the Florentine bank +which had handled the small matter of Flagg’s account. Lilah was +visited by an Anglo-Italian who wore a white Imperial in the flamboyant +manner of Maximilian and who gesticulated with small, self-conscious +hands in black kid gloves. She was, he informed her, to leave Flagg in +Italy, since there was no one to receive him in America. + +“Then I am not to be consulted?” she demanded with a smile that should +have humiliated him. + +He shrugged his shoulders. “Those were our instructions, _signora_.” +He rose and bowed, his eyes veiling their curiosity, his attitude a +discreet expression of admiration. “We are also instructed to meet any +expense--any necessary expense.” + +“I suppose you mean that I am to get back to America any way I can.” + +“I suggest that you wire your own bank, _signora_.” + +“Oh, yes,” she said crisply. “Of course! I was not referring to money +but to the indifference of Mr. Flagg’s family.” + +Those little, initiated, trained hands made a gesture disposing of +families. “The world is cruel, _signora_. If there is anything I can do +for you, call upon me. I am not indifferent to distress. Permit me to +say that I am more than sorry--” + +When he was gone, she wandered from room to room, from window to +window, peering out at the black sky, at the drenched cypresses, the +bedraggled arbor. The little cat asked to be let in. “I must find a +home for you,” Lilah said. Because, like Lilah, the little cat loved +soft and beautiful things, she was forever crying at closed doors, +begging to be let in to warmth and light. But no one cared, because it +is not enough to love soft things, beauty-- + +The house-agent, rattling his keys, interrupted her. He had an air of +relishing the situation and there was, at the same time, something sly +and insinuating in his manner. He stared, immediately, at everything +as if he expected to find that some of the furniture had been removed. +He asked whether Lilah intended to remain at the “Villino Sans-Souci,” +which had been leased by the “poor gentleman” for a year. + +Lilah realized, with a shock of positive terror, that she must leave +the house at once. + +“An English gentleman is most anxious to take the house. Perhaps, +next week--to be precise, Wednesday--the _signora_ will surrender the +property?” + +Afraid of his eyes, Lilah said: “I cannot move before the first of the +month. The rent is paid until then.” + +This was a mistake. The agent repeated that his English client must +take possession at once--or find another, suitable house. It was +not a simple matter to find tenants for houses in the country, the +_forestieri_ preferred, as a rule, the life and gayety of the city. “As +for me, _signora_, I would die of the melancholy in this place.” + +“Wednesday, then,” Lilah said. She shut him out with a weary gesture. + +Where on earth should she go? Now, of course, she could not ask Robert, +or Junius, for money. She had burned her bridges. + +She packed Flagg’s things, vaguely intending to give them to some one +who might need them--the farmer next door or that tall idiot boy who +lived over the hill, the one who could imitate the birds and sat all +day calling them, delighted by his own cleverness. Lilah could not +kiss Flagg’s things, or caress them. Some women might have, but they +would not have been the kind of women who love deeply. Lilah shook his +clothes out, folded them, with a sort of frozen indifference, as if +they had belonged to some one else. She had had her hour of bravery, +alone with him. She had sat with death. No one, not even David Brenner, +could call her a coward now.... But at the end, Flagg’s eyes shut her +out. He had gone away without her, still cherishing his secrets.... +Selfish.... The word rang in her ears. + +She got up, went quickly downstairs and to his desk where that little +heap of manuscript lay untouched. She began to read eagerly, hearing +his voice in every word.... How long would it be before she would +forget his voice? How long must she suffer like this? + +She could not understand what he had written.... No wonder that he had +never confided in her. He had either gone infinitely further along the +paths she feared and shrank from, or else he had been deluded, blinded +by glimpses of the infinite. His phrases had no meaning for her. How +far must she go, she wondered, before she could judge, appraise him? +She would know, some day, whether he had been selfish, or beyond the +proscribed, essential personality of the unenlightened being--Robert, +Junius, herself. + +She had deceived him, in the beginning; he had thought that he saw +in her what, eventually, he found she did not have. He had little +by little uncovered her artifice, her ignorance, her evasions, her +frivolity, her fear, until in the end, he clasped, perhaps with shame, +a naked little body.... That was why, in the end, he smiled at her and +shut her out.... + + * * * * * + +Hearing a carriage, she thrust the papers under a blotter, out of +sight, as if they had been a proclamation of her failure. The servant +came in, announcing the _contessa_. + +“_Cara mia_, I have just heard.” + +She offered both her hands to Lilah. She was dressed in the extreme of +fashion, and Lilah thought: “She must have made a match.” + +The _contessa’s_ sharp, initiated eyes studied Lilah’s face through +a lorgnon. She wore, always, too many ornaments, chains, bracelets, +medallions and pins; her flat breast was hung with brilliants. “My poor +child. I hear that you were in Paris. What a terrible thing. What will +you do? Go back to your husband?” + +“No.” + +“Perhaps you will remarry.” + +“My dear _contessa_,” Lilah said impatiently, “I am not yet divorced. +And I loved the man who is dead.” + +“But you’ll have to do something with your life. You can’t live here, +alone, in this treasure-house of sweet memories! You’ll have to do +something! You’re young. I don’t believe in women sitting desolate +among the ruins, willfully mourning the irrevocable. Life is so +terribly short and cruel, so--so avaricious. I have always believed +in snapping my fingers in the face of destiny. You couldn’t imagine +the number of times I’ve been knocked down. I always get up again. I’m +clever. A woman alone has to be. You’ve got to understand men. If I +were beautiful, with my knowledge of men, I could achieve anything.... +As it is--sixty, and a bag of bones--I manage--” Her voice trailed off. +A look of weariness and fright crossed her eyes. “I manage. Now, if I +were you--” + +“I haven’t a cent,” Lilah cried suddenly. “I don’t know what to do. Can +you lend me a few hundred dollars?” + +The _contessa_ closed her lorgnon with a snap. Her expression became +sly, sweet, and guarded. She stared down at her large, awkward +hands, at the glitter of small, inexpensive but ostentatious rings +which ornamented her fingers. She shook her head. “Impossible. Just +at the moment, I am what we Americans call flush. But you never can +tell.... You never can tell! It’s a precarious world. And the Italians +aren’t gifted with a sense of gratitude. I did wonderful things for a +_borghese_, a store-keeper, who wanted to enlarge his establishment....” + +She broke off. “You might live with me for a while. I would enjoy your +companionship. Your presence would brighten my _salon_. I am quite in +earnest. I would not expect compensation. Gayety. Vivacity. Elegance. +And in return the advantage of my large acquaintance....” + +“Thank you,” Lilah said. “No.” + +She shivered. “No. You are very kind. But I am going back to America.” + +She stood, and the _contessa_, her chains and bangles clinking +together, took her leave. “You are very foolish,” she said at the +door. “Perhaps you will reconsider. You are intelligent enough to know +that I am respectable. If you are afraid of facts....” She got into +her carriage, crossed one leg over the other, displaying an elaborate +slipper, and waved. “_Au ’voir!_” + + * * * * * + +Lilah thought: “Who knows? Some day.” + +She sat before the fire, smoking and stroking the cat, that kept up +a remote humming, a sort of tea-kettle purring. She thought of the +simple existence of a cat. Either you were hungry and hunted, or you +weren’t, and purred, with no thought of the next day or the next. If +she were to leave the little black cat to the mercy of the agent, the +birds in the cypress groves would have to watch out--a lean, famished +little cat with lashing tail would creep through the under-brush, +stalking.... “I’ll give you to the doctor,” Lilah said aloud. The +little cat blinked and fell asleep. + +Life wasn’t so simple for a woman whose only talent was knowing how +to dress well. To live. Just to live, and not be hungry! Suppose she +were to accept the _contessa’s_ invitation. She knew quite well what +it meant--a married woman, in Italy--even a divorcee would find it +almost impossible to remarry. She would become the mistress of one of +the _contessa’s_ friends, for a compensation. He would, of necessity, +be a wealthy _borghese_, since men of title were seeking dowries, +not adventures. She let the projected image of herself pass across +her imagination, an image of Lilah accentuated, for the moment more +brilliant, her mystery understored, her charm deepened by necessity to +a certain vulgarity--an actress pretending to be a lady.... She would +seek satisfaction in the possession of concrete adornments, tributes +to her first, untarnished success. She might, even, take her situation +seriously.... + +She threw her cigarette into the fire with a gesture that was both +violent and contemptuous. First her father, now Flagg, had left her to +shift for herself. Her mouth drooped. Her eyes, angry, dull with pain, +brooded. “I can’t bear this. What, in God’s name, am I going to do?” + +It was not yet dark. Twilight was gathering, and the ugly, incongruous +objects in the room retreated into shadow. She thought of the +Thirty-eighth Street house, Shawhan’s flamboyant ladies, the dull +gold of shaded lights, the discreet, remote murmur of traffic in that +brazen, that fearless, that challenging city.... She went to the +window. The valley, Florence, was dark beneath a dark sky; there were +no lights; it might have been a city forgotten and deserted, a place +given over to the ghosts of a reckless, fearless, challenging yesterday. + +“I must go back,” she thought. + +She straightened herself, as if she were facing an antagonist. Across +the valley, beneath that dark sky, Flagg was alone with the secret +he had withheld from her. It seemed to Lilah that she must, somehow, +get to him, hear his voice, listen again to the beating of his heart, +caress his hair. But there was something she must do first. She must +bring him the Lilah he wanted. + + * * * * * + +Doctor Bacci lived across the river in an old house, narrow, tall, +toppling, in the Via dei Bardi. There was a garden at the rear, where, +he assured her, the little black cat and her kitten would be free to +caper or to bask in the sun. He opened the hat-box Lilah had brought +from the Ponte a Mensola, from which emerged a continuous scratching +and mewing. Damp and disheveled, the two cats jumped out and began +at once to investigate, under tables, behind doors, into cupboards, +everywhere. + +“You’re sure you don’t mind?” + +The doctor smiled. “I am, on the contrary, flattered.” + +He touched a bell and a man servant came in. The doctor said in +Italian: “These are my two children. The little, black female is called +Simonetta. The other, Moro. Will you ask Tata to feed them?” + +“_Si, signore._” + +He turned to find Lilah in tears. “Now, there is nothing,” she said. + +“You have forgotten the future.” + +With a flash of scorn, she answered: “What cold comfort!” + +“I have nothing better to offer.” The doctor looked away from her, +through the French door to the patch of garden. Lilah wondered whether +pity embarrassed him. “What are you going to do?” he asked. + +She told him, at once, her situation. “There is no one else I can go +to. I’m alone. I don’t want my husband or his grandfather to know +anything about me. I am afraid that if I should see them I might +weaken. I might go back. I have told you enough about myself to make it +plain to you that if I should go back it would be--” + +“Unthinkable,” the doctor interrupted. + +He rose politely. “There are a few patients--When I have seen them, I +will join you in the garden.” + +He opened the door and Lilah passed him, conscious of his glance, both +curious and eager. Before the door closed again, he watched her cross +the garden and seat herself on a stone bench beneath the polished +foliage of a camelia tree. There, in that square pool of green, at the +bottom of a well formed by the walls of houses, beneath another square +of cloudless sky, Lilah felt a pervading loneliness. An emotional +courage had carried her so far. Could she go farther? Everything, +literally everything, depended on this man. If he should open the door +and come toward her with a certain expression, she would know that she +was to be forever the victim of her negative philosophy; her vision +could not outlast the attack of a calculated and intelligent cynicism. +Her balance was too precarious. If he came toward her with another +expression--and she could tell, when he had no more than opened the +door--she would be forever under obligation to her new self. There +could be no backsliding. + +She relaxed suddenly. The sunlight, after so many weeks of rain, had +about it an almost personal warmth; it lay across her hands, her cheek, +her shoulders. The walls dripped moisture and a shallow fountain kept +up a thin tinkle as a jet rose and fell. A door opened, some one said +“_Via!_” and the two cats scampered out, their tails very stiff. They +sat down in a patch of sunlight and began to lick themselves, first +their haunches, then their stomachs, and at last their heads, over +and over with their paws. Finished, one of them fell asleep, his paws +tucked under so that he was heart-shaped. The other, Simonetta, +explored the garden, daintily, stepping over everything lightly, her +tail twitching.... + +“She has forgotten him already,” Lilah thought. And she remembered +Flagg’s fingers caressing the black fur.... Her own hair.... A wild +sweetness possessed her. She closed her eyes, abandoned to it. It +flowed over her like light, this remembering. It was bitter and +wonderful and exquisite. If she could remember like this, she would +never be altogether alone; she could summon the recollection of his +touch.... + +The sensation passed. She was cold. She opened her eyes to the bright +immobility of the garden. + +The French doors of the doctor’s office opened. He came toward her +quickly, but she did not look at his face. + +He said without preface: “I will see that you get back to New York +and that you are provided for until you can find something to do. +Florence isn’t the place for you. Here you would never reach the final +step--purification. It is too old, too settled a beauty. You need the +struggle America offers--competition, enthusiasm. I could show you an +Italy you don’t dream of, but it is mine, not yours! You would never +understand it and, in the end, it would destroy you, since you are +weakened by perfection. You will have to cut your way out of ugliness.” +He paused. Then in a different, casual voice he said: “Simonetta has +come to stay. She is asleep on the kitchen step.” And he called: +“_Vieni! Gattinino!_” + +Lilah returned to New York. It was Spring of the year. She mingled in +the restless stream flowing up one side of the Avenue, down the other, +broken by cross-currents, flowing on again, resistlessly, to no purpose. + +The doctor’s generosity had been limited by his resources; he was not, +in the American sense, well-to-do. When Lilah counted her pennies and +considered her debt, she realized that he had spoken the truth; she +must cut her way out of ugliness. Poverty in a cottage might be, at +least, picturesque, immaterial; in New York it was ponderable, a sordid +weight of petty obstacles; so much for so much and never quite enough. + +Lilah established herself in a room not far from Astor Place. + +New York was a desert. She was alone in a crowded wilderness. She +was shabby, in debt and desperate. But if Robert had reappeared and +had asked her to return to the Thirty-eighth Street house, to the +sumptuous, familiar extravagances of her life there, she would have +lacked the courage to accept. + +She had a new thirst for power, a new eagerness to escape. She wanted +the power that comes with personal success. She wanted to escape from +the curse of materialism. She had lived in a sham world; the shabby, +dark room, the dingy window-panes, the worn carpet were reality. + +Lilah’s daily search for work took her through streets where there +was not even a remote chance of being recognized by old friends; she +threaded the crowded mazes of commerce, anonymous and frightened. + +It did not occur to her to go back to the fashionable couturier in the +’Fifties who had “built” her trousseau. She remembered his first curt +dismissal, the card tossed to her across his desk. “Learn to put hats +together; then, perhaps, you can design them.” + +She avoided those up-town streets given over to fashionable shops and +hotels, establishments haunted by women of her acquaintance whose whims +carried them from one dressmaker to another, from one antiquarian to +another. She wanted to lose herself, to be immersed in an unfamiliar +atmosphere, to be alone with this strange, new Lilah. Now that Flagg +was dead, he was more than ever real. He had never been so insistently +near her, more insistently a part of her. But their life together had +lost all reality. It seemed, now, to have happened in a half-forgotten +dream. She had dreamed and had wakened to the commonplace business of +living. The actual became confused with the vision; she experienced a +new, strong sense of distaste, almost fear, at the proximity of people +who might break the comforting nostalgia. + +She saw no one but David Brenner. The young Jew fitted her mood. He was +not, now, in love with her but with some scheme of his own. He called +her his “little sardine” but he did not accuse her of being a humbug. + +She lunched with him at the identical restaurant of their last meeting, +and Lilah traced with her finger recent signatures scratched in the +pine table by unknowns craving an easy notoriety. + +David Brenner’s talk was of people, things, she knew nothing about. +A dozen personalities had flashed across the American intellectual +firmament trailing sparks and shedding inhibitions--rockets, most of +them, that shot up with a tremendous dazzle and were destined soon +to snuff out, to zig-zag to earth. David Brenner spoke of them with +immense seriousness. He was like most Americans, she decided, in his +facile enthusiasms, his sudden, scornful shifts of opinion. + +“I’m broke, David,” she said. + +He did not take her seriously. He knew nothing about her. And behind +his bantering admiration there was always distrust. When she told him +that she could not find work, he shrugged his shoulders. “You’ll never +get the sort of job you’re looking for, Lilah. Try Fifth Avenue and +your own particular brand of bluff.” + +There it was again. Her own particular brand of bluff. + +It was lonely, living by herself. She left David Brenner and went back +to the room just off Astor Place. Day after day at five o’clock she +went there because there was nowhere else to go. She had lost her sense +of the pageantry of the streets and of her part in it. No one turned +to look at her, because she no longer had the assurance, the air of +victory, which attracts attention. + +She took David Brenner’s advice. After all, what did it matter if +Robert’s friends should happen to see her? She had been stupid. +She was not the type of woman they wanted in East Side shirtwaist +factories. Over and over again she had failed because she had had no +“experience,” that vague attribute of anemic, gum-chewing, bobbed girls +who always “got the job” Lilah failed to get. Her manner, her charm +counted for nothing. She discovered that she was too old to serve the +necessary apprenticeship. Girls of fifteen were doing, efficiently, +what she could not do. Others, thousands of them, were trained, ready +to take the succeeding steps toward the few high-salaried positions +available to women in business. At eight o’clock, at five o’clock, the +streets were choked with women, all of them initiated-- + +Lilah sat before her mirror and took stock of herself. + +“Twenty-nine,” she said aloud. + +In the fashionable world she had left, twenty-nine was at the beginning +of experience. At thirty, a woman tried her wings; if she were clever +and ambitious, it was the age of marital re-adjustment, of social +expansion, of thrilling experiment, leadership. But to be a lonely +little nobody at thirty! To climb endless iron stairs to innumerable +glazed doors marked: _Private_. To answer advertisements a day too +late. To be told to leave her name and address, to come again, to +telephone, to write. To thread the crowded streets, pretending +eagerness. To try and fail.... + +It would be easier to write Robert something evasive, something +pathetic ... she could always touch his heart ... and, to-morrow, she +would be at the Point, laughing with Junius, everything forgotten.... + +She actually went to the table and took up a pen, dipping it several +times in the ink. She wrote: _March 30_. But she could not write: _Dear +Robert_. Could not. The letters would not go down. + +She put her head on the paper and cried. She cried until she fell +asleep. She was very tired and she was beginning to be hungry. The +doctor’s loan would not carry her another week and she could not ask +him for more. It was enough that he was caring for Simonetta and +Moro.... It was enough that he had seen Flagg die.... + +In the morning she went up town. Someone, very optimistic, had set out +English daisies in window boxes. It was warm on the sunny side of the +street. And what shops! What clothes! Lilah, drunk, paused to stare +at a chinchilla wrap, a Leghorn hat, a pair of brocaded sandals, a +fan made of pheasants’ feathers set in onyx sticks.... She felt the +old hunger for possession. She shook her head and straightened her +shoulders. She groped for her dim, new faith, what it was that drove +her on, why it was that she must win this obscure, personal game.... + +She went into the employee’s entrance of a department store. A +doorman, who was sitting on a stool, directed her to the office of +“Miss Craig--she sees everybody.” Miss Craig was young, and a lady. +From behind spectacles with tortoise-shell rims her eyes investigated +Lilah’s unmistakable elegance. Maurice’s black gown was a miracle of +simplicity; it had outlasted two seasons. Miss Craig wrote something +on a pad. Her expression was purposefully enigmatic, but the corners +of her mouth twitched. “There isn’t much chance just at present.... +I could try you in the cotton good’s department. It’s quite hard. +You’d have to learn the stock. The material isn’t heavy, but the bolts +are--it means lifting all day and standing on your feet. Our employees +are expected to go to school in the beginning. We have to be sure that +they are reasonably good mathematicians--honest--intelligent--” She +paused, flushing. + +“Anything,” Lilah said. “I’ll do anything. I’m at the end.” + +After a moment, Miss Craig said: “I’m terribly sorry. I guessed as +much. Would twenty-five dollars a week help any? I can’t offer you +more. For a novice, you know--” + +“Yes. Yes. Anything.” + +Lilah went to school. Fractions terrified her. Graduated, she pasted +labels, and, for a week, wrote undecipherable, meaningless numbers and +letters on pasteboard tickets. She did not see Miss Craig again. She +learned of the men “higher up”; the floor-walkers, department managers, +buyers and sales managers who dominated this world of workers. She +encountered the “politics” of a big store. She heard gossip, the +bitter, querulous backbiting of tired women. + +The day came when, with a sense of dread and excitement, she was put +“on the floor.” All day she lifted heavy rolls of gingham, muslin, +cotton, crêpe, twisted them, measured them, rolled them up again. +Pink. Yellow. Hideous checks and nauseating plaids. Pretty, crisp +organdies, like the starched skirts of little girls at a picnic.... + +All day she was questioned, bullied, scolded. She passed close to +the other clerks, brushed them with her own body and yet never saw +them. This was not Lilah. This was a common, clever, indifferent girl +who was rolling and unrolling cotton goods. “How many yards, madam?” +That was not Lilah’s voice; it was too high and sharp; the accent too +clipped.... Once she thrust her pencil through her hair, and something +apart from Lilah laughed. Junius had said that she was an actress.... +“Two sixty-four. At one thirty-two a yard. Anything else?” + +A young girl with a broad face and gray eyes said: “Say, you can’t wear +that dress. Mr. Mansfield will get after you. It has to be plain black, +and no frills.” + + * * * * * + +Twenty-five a week was not enough. Lilah left the room near Astor Place +and moved to Tenth Street. An old house, the house of a merchant of the +’Eighties, had resisted the tide of factories and sweatshops. It stood, +peeling, cracked and damp, between two towering buildings occupied by +fur manufacturers and printers. A smell of hides dominated, indoors +and out of doors. Packing cases littered the sidewalks and trucks +stood wheel to wheel for blocks. Spring, a hint of sunlight, brought +out an army of workers. Before the aquiline façade of the old house a +polyglot crowd lock-stepped, making wide gestures and speaking the dim +languages of southeastern Europe. At night, the street was deserted. + +Lilah’s room, three flights up, faced a courtyard which must have been, +in the old days, a formal garden. Now, in a litter of boxes, cans and +barrels, a lilac tree fought to live. Lilah recalled the cypresses of +Vincigliata. + +She had lost the last vestiges of her hard brightness, her security. + +She lunched every day with the young girl who had warned her not to +wear the Maurice dress, that conspicuous miracle of simplicity. And +painstakingly, as if everything depended on it, Lilah acquired from +this girl a new standard of judgment based on the unpalatable facts +of life. She was surprised at her own flexibility. But something +unalterable, fixed, in her nature demanded achievement, justification. +There would be, must be, a way out.... + +Summer was stifling; the city seemed closed beneath a dome of steel, +its reverberations intensified, the air was thick and hot. + +In the store, a few limp and wilted shoppers wandered aimlessly +about, but there was so little business that, it was rumored, some of +the sales force would be dropped. Lilah knew the daily panic which +comes of uncertainty. Her record was not good; she had never reached +the average sales required to justify her presence in the shop, her +salary, which was, after all, percentage on an investment. The other +clerks were sharper; they had the tenacity of women born in poverty. +Her instinctive mental attitudes, beyond their comprehension, made +competition, playing the game on their terms, impossible. + +She was not surprised when Miss Craig sent for her. + +“I’m sorry. We’re letting fifty people go. There’s no business.” + +“And I’m one of the fifty?” + +“Yes.” Miss Craig looked away, as if Lilah’s expression hurt her. “It +isn’t _me_, Mrs. Peabody. _I_ don’t decide these things. I’m told that +fifty must go. I look through the averages--” + +“Like the massacre at Dinard,” Lilah said. She felt cold and stiff and +her fingers tingled. + +“Don’t you know any one--” Miss Craig suggested. + +Lilah shook her head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage.” + +“I’m _sure_ you will.” Miss Craig was evidently relieved. She said +brightly: “Why not try the uptown shops? You don’t belong here. I’ll +give you a letter to ‘Emilie.’ He’s Irish. He’ll like you.” + +“You are very kind.” + + * * * * * + +Lilah knew, now, that there were two phases of life--life with illusion +and life without it. To exist, to reconcile living with life, something +must take the place of the lost beliefs. There must be faith in the +abstract promise, the idea, withheld, mysterious and penetrating, of +immortality.... She did what she always did, in moments of questioning. +Facing herself in a mirror she thought: “Flagg would have told me +this, only I wouldn’t have understood. I wasn’t ready.” + +She was conscious, too, of an apathy that was new to her, an +indifference, a shadow of the lassitude which comes with a surrender +of personality. She shrugged the feeling away. She must live. She must +take, while there was still time, the advantage offered by her youth, +her charm. “Humbug! Humbug!” she said to her reflection. + +She glanced at Miss Craig’s letter addressed to the firm of “Emilie.” +“Dear Reilly: Mrs. Peabody is the rustle of silk in our cotton goods +department. Have a heart. Edna.” + +Lilah smiled. This letter was so sharp and bright and cold, so +cocksure. It might mean everything or nothing. She wondered how any +one--a woman--could scratch off a letter like that and give it to +another woman who was desperate and friendless. “Have a heart!” + +She found “Emilie” on Park Avenue. A small, ornate, Venetian house with +grilled windows and a loggia beneath a tiled roof had been converted +into an “establishment.” A man in livery opened the heavy door and +scrutinized the letter. “Mr. Reilly’s busy. Come Wednesday at four +o’clock.” + +Lilah pushed her way in. “I’ll wait. I’ve got to see him. Tell him the +letter is from Miss Craig. He’ll see me.” + +The man hesitated, turning the letter over and over between +cotton-gloved fingers. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Reilly gave particular +orders--” + +Lilah glanced beyond him. A thin, spry man in a cutaway coat was +running down a flight of carpeted stairs, yards of purple chiffon +hanging across his arm and trailing behind him like the robes of a +Pharaoh. Lilah’s heart contracted. She was amazed to hear herself +saying: “Oh, Mr. Reilly!” in a loud, confident voice. Inwardly she +quaked. She had never done such a thing. She had no idea whether or not +this was the dressmaker. + +He bounded toward her, gathering up the chiffon, all the time staring +at her as if he intended to take a bite out of her. He looked like a +very angry fox-terrier. + +“Mr. Reilly--” + +“Oh, God.” + +He tripped over the chiffon and threw it on the ground. He snatched at +the letter, read it, showed his teeth and almost growled. “Can’t you +wait? I’m busy. No. Come upstairs. I’ll let you help. Bring this stuff, +Fred.” + +While they mounted the stairs, Reilly running just ahead, his patent +shoes and white gaiters twinkling, he carried on an irritable +monologue. “Everyone’s sick. Mrs. Mason went to Lake George this +morning. I’m short-handed. Twenty-five models came on the _Olympic_ +yesterday and they’ve got to be photographed. If you can wear hats you +can go over to the studio with Duncan and he’ll get the collection.” + +“I’m not a model,” Lilah interrupted. + +He turned sharply and surveyed her. She felt that he could see more +than it was decent for any stranger to see--he could see her crouching +within herself, afraid of hunger. “We’ll try.” He kicked open a door +and she followed him into a room paneled from floor to ceiling with +mirrors. She encountered herself, little, with scared eyes, profile, +three-quarters, her back turned, face to face. She raised her hand and +a dozen images of herself all raised their hands in a sort of salute. + +The floor was littered with packing cases from which spilled tissue +paper and hats. “We’ll try,” Reilly repeated. He swooped down, growled, +came up with a bonnet. Lilah understood that she was to remove her +own hat and assume this fashionable coal-scuttle, this modern, French +adaptation of a mode seventy-five years old. “My dress is wrong,” she +said. The challenge excited her. She felt, suddenly, re-animated, +alive, after a period of stillness. + +Reilly said: “Never mind. You have a charming head.” + +She bent her head quickly and looked up at herself. + +“Very good. Now, this one.” He swooped again. Lilah had never seen such +a flexible human being; he seemed not to have any bones. “Don’t wear it +too far forward. These hats need eyes.... Too violent for you. You’re +pale....” He made a vague gesture. “Paisley. Amber. Blonde lace. Pink +net and camelias.... _Ah!_” He emerged from a heap of tissue-paper with +a small _cloche_. “Try this.” + +A dozen Lilahs adjusted the expensive trifle of straw, a hat +magnificently disdainful, unornamented, copyrighted by an astute and +talented milliner. + +“I’ll call Duncan.” + +Reilly disappeared and Lilah was left alone with the manifold +reflection of herself. + +Well, it was over, now. She had known from the beginning that she could +not escape-- + +Reilly returned with a stout, breathless man in an alpaca coat who wore +a straw hat pushed back. + +After a brief inspection, wholly impersonal, he said: “Too blonde. +She’d photygraph like a white mouse.” + +Reilly waved him out again. The sense, the implication of the +photographer’s remark was clear. Lilah removed the _cloche_ and tossed +it aside. She groped for her own hat. “Don’t go,” Reilly interrupted +sharply. “Wait. You can take Katherine’s place--” + +He beckoned to her. + +The front of the house, from basement to loggia, was given over to +salesrooms, luxurious, miniature shops designed to attract and hold +devotees at the shrine of that elusive deity, the mode. Reilly was an +astute priest. He had capitalized his serious interest in women; he +was unaware of his own incongruity. Sharp, alert, inexhaustible, he +worshipped women and exacted payment from them--he “burned incense and +passed the plate” he told Lilah. Something effeminate in his gesture, +the use of his hands, was contradicted by the shrewdness of his eyes. + +He preceded Lilah into a room furnished in the Venetian manner, dimly +lighted, opening upon the loggia. Through the delicate, turned columns, +a prismatic confusion of vertical stone shafts picketed the smoky +sky--the city. A girl rose from a bench, approached with the languid +gait of the trained _mannequin_. “Duncan wants you. This is Mrs. +Peabody. She’ll take your place.” + +Reilly turned. “There’s no business at this time of year. But if any +one should come in, sell! The hats are in these cases. Use your own +judgment and get as much as you can for them. Nothing under thirty-five +dollars. Poor models, more. Good models, less. That’s excellent +psychology. A woman who pays fifty dollars for an ugly hat will wear it +to spite the devil, and she’ll like it, in spite of herself. A woman +who gets a beautiful hat for thirty-five dollars will advertise it--and +us!” + +He sat down, clasped his knees and asked abruptly: “Who are you? Not +Mrs. Robert Peabody?” + +“Yes.” + +“Don’t tell any one! Call yourself Mrs. Isaac Peabody--anything! If +you stay here, you are not likely to meet your friends. I cater to +actresses, rich middle-westerners and fashionable demi-mondaines. +They’ll like your looks and your manners. Women are always fascinated +by the unattainable.” + +“Thank you.” + +“We’ll say thirty to start with. If you make good, I’ll give you this +department, at seventy-five. Katherine is a beautiful bonehead....” + +He leaped up. “I’ll send a stock-girl. For God’s sake don’t ask any +questions. Use your common sense and sell hats.” + +He stepped forward and with no softening of his expression, touched her +hair. “That’s a good girl.” + + * * * * * + +Lilah discovered before long that Reilly was withholding the reward, +the promise of that first day. Summer melted into the stifling heat of +September and beneath a metallic, dark blue sky the city shimmered, +quivered as if licked by the minute flames of an infernal fire. “My +God, it’s hot,” the stately Katherine remarked. She stood by the open +window, in silhouette, her attitude reminiscent of Francesca, the +disdainful melancholy of Duse. “My God, it’s hot. Why don’t Reilly +close on Saturday?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“I do. He might lose a dollar.” + +Lilah had changed her opinion of Reilly; he paid very little attention +to her; she had never again had to endure that brief, impersonal +caress. He had called her, without preface of any sort: “Lilah.” And he +had left her to her own devices. + +She came to the conclusion that Reilly was either a fraud or an artist. +The room in which he received his clients had only one window and three +doors, one leading into the workroom, one into his bath and the other +into the “Salotto d’Oro.” His desk bore, in addition to an alabaster +lamp, stacked copies of _La Vie Parisienne_: a copy, in French of _Le +Mariage de Loti_; a box made of lacquered leather heavily embossed; +and a small colored bust in terra-cotta that at first glance might +have been Florentine but was, actually, Egyptian. Behind him, in an +angle of the wall, a secretary of inlaid wood towered almost to the +ceiling. There were three Venetian chairs, ornate and faded. And hung +together above a small cabinet, signed photographs of Ibanez, Poiret, +Chaliapin and Nora Bayes. + +Lilah found that Reilly was a man of violent enthusiasms. His interest +in her had been immediate, sharp; he had, perhaps, been studying her. +There was a certain zest in competing for his attention, since he +had indicated in the beginning, a definite award. Lilah held aloof +from the other women of the establishment, because Reilly had warned +her that she could expect jealousy, and that she must avoid conflict +if she expected to advance. Her ambition was trivial. But faith in +herself, her potentiality, returned slowly. She was humble and, in her +recollection of Flagg, disciplined. As the actuality of that experience +receded, its meaning became more clear. + +Katherine, stretching her long arms above her head, yawned. “I could +stand the present if it wasn’t for the future,” she said. “Waiting’s +hell when nothing happens.” + +She caught herself as the mirror-paneled door of the elevator slid +back and two women stepped into the room. “_B’ jour, mesdames_,” she +murmured; her body undulated; she swam toward them. + +Lilah’s expression of polite concern deepened into surprise, dismay. +She recognized Grace Whiteside, fat, over-ornamented, placid in the +secure possession of family and position, and, behind her, Miss Fuller, +as always, in gray with a little pan-cake hat made of leaves. + +Lilah held up her hand to ward off their recognition. Grace Whiteside +came to a full stop; she seemed to spread, to puff out, like an angry +turkey. + +“Don’t,” Lilah said faintly. She turned and ran out of the room. + +She waited, leaning against the closed door. She heard a murmur of +voices, Katherine’s suave and insinuating: “Very _chic, madame_. Very +new. Reboux. Just try this one, _madame_.” + +Presently they were gone. The elevator came up; the door rattled; it +descended again, making a hollow, reverberating sound in the wall. + +Lilah wondered at her own fear; it was not a moral cowardice, of that +she was certain; she was not ashamed. She had a different sense of +responsibility toward herself and the opinion people had of her. She +was unwilling to face Miss Whiteside and Grace Fuller because she had +not, as far as they could see, progressed; the change that had taken +place within her was beyond their comprehension. The new self had +always been there, dormant; but it had been disclosed by Flagg’s death, +by the questioning which had followed. + +Katherine emerged from the “Salotto d’Oro” suddenly. Her expression was +sly and gratified, as if she had caught Lilah in an indiscretion. She +passed, without a word, going toward Reilly’s office, the black satin +drapery of her skirt slipping over the carpet like a smooth serpent. + +Lilah went back to the salesroom. Grace Whiteside had been trying on +bonnets, Reilly’s rare confections of lace and spangles designed for +grandmothers of the stage. It had been, apparently, a perfunctory +inspection. + +As Lilah put the hats back in their place, she pictured Miss Whiteside +rushing to the nearest telegraph office to wire Junius Peabody.... +Grace Fuller would probably try to prevent what, in the end, would mean +her own happiness. But nothing could turn aside the fanatical thrusts +of the outraged spinster; she would plant her vengeance sooner or +later. Now, Lilah must let herself be divorced; an eventuality which +would deprive her of her position with Reilly, since the inevitable +scandal would affect her usefulness. Reilly was beginning to cast in +social waters, and he was baiting his hook cautiously. He was shrewd +but he was not sophisticated. His knowledge of society had been derived +at second hand. Into his vocabulary the word “form” had appeared. He +had subjugated the theatrical world and now, longing for other, more +difficult attainment, he was angling for what he termed, in a whisper, +“Newport and Bar Harbor....” + +Lilah’s mind went off at a tangent; she caught herself wondering +whether Grace Fuller had been chaperoning Robert’s aunt through another +attack of gallstones, or whether-- + +Reilly came in, shutting the door with an irritable bang. “What’s +this? What’s Katherine trying to put over?” Lilah did not answer and +snatching the bonnet away from her, Reilly tossed it aside. “I hate +tittle-tattle! She came down stairs, gloating, as if she had caught you +picking the safe. What happened?” + +With a sense of the futility of any explanation, Lilah said: “I lost my +head and Katherine lost a sale....” + +“Damn the sale!” + +Reilly stood, wrapped in a sort of angry contemplation, his hands in +his pockets, his small, gaitered feet spread. “You’d better let me go,” +Lilah said. “It might happen again.” She added, with a curious smile: +“I’m sorry, more so than I can say.” + +He fixed his eyes on her face. + +“I’ll let you know,” he answered sharply and left the room. + +A week later, he sent for her. + +“I’m going to put you in the workroom. I think you have the makings of +a designer. Later, perhaps, I’ll send you to Paris, Vienna.... It won’t +do to have you upstairs.” + +He hesitated and then said sharply: “I’ve heard from your family.” + +Lilah had not expected this. She leaned against the desk with a feeling +of faintness. + +“They’ve written me. One of them--a Mr. Junius Peabody--wants to see +you.” + +“I can’t! No.... For heaven’s sake, no! I don’t want to see him.” + +Reilly considered her. “I thought I’d warn you. He’s downstairs. +There’s his card.” He tossed it across the desk. “You’d better see +him.” Reilly rose and came around to her; his hand fell on her +shoulder. “You’re not a coward, are you?” + +“No.” + +“Then face things! If you don’t, they steal up behind you and knock you +down. Always keep your eye on your fears.” His clasp tightened. “Do +you know why I hired you? I was afraid of you! I’m not familiar with +your sort. You made me ashamed of what I am.... Now, it seems, you are +ashamed of what you are.... Either you’re stubborn or you’re guilty. I +don’t pretend to understand. I’d like to put across to you--well, don’t +make a mistake.” + +Lilah smiled, made a gesture of surrender. “I’ll see him.” + +“That’s a good girl.” Reilly paused on the threshold. “And listen. +Don’t hold out against him because of any resentment ... don’t be a +damn fool. There is more than one way of making good.” + +A moment later, rigid, consciously and painfully correct, he bowed +Junius Peabody into the room and closed the door again, softly, as if +he were closing it upon the sacred essence of good form. + +Lilah faced Junius with a trace of confusion; her lips trembled; she +smiled unsteadily, because he was so unfalteringly Junius in spite +of everything. He carried his overcoat on his arm; his head, bared, +was held erect, the white, thick hair brushed carefully back from the +veined forehead. Immaculate, even exquisite, at eighty-seven he still +gave the impression of vigorous and aristocratic possession. He said: +“Lilah,” and, leaning forward, she kissed him, clung to him suddenly +with a passionate eagerness to be understood. Forgiveness was not +required, looked for, since she had had to do what she had done. + +She felt his hand, patting, patting her back. “_There, there_,” he said. + +She made an effort and controlled herself, remembering that at Junius’ +age emotion is painful and perhaps ugly. + +He sat down; disposed of his coat, his hat and the heavy, goldmounted +cane, and glanced about him. “My first visit to a dressmaker’s since +’Eighty-six,” he said. “They’ve changed. No ribbons here!” He made a +gesture of dislike. “That fellow--that popinjay--” + +“Emilie,” Lilah said, wiping her eyes. A flash of her old self came +through, evoked by Junius’ presence. But she could not, now, laugh at +Reilly. He was her destiny. She was forced to admit that without Reilly +she might be caught in the tide and carried out to sea. + +“He’s really very clever.” + +“A man dressmaker,” Junius stated dryly, “puts me on edge. I will never +be reconciled--” + +He broke off and scrutinized her. “Well, Lilah.” + +With sudden violence she burst out: “I know! You can’t understand why +I’ve hidden myself away. I had to. You and I are alike, but you’ve +never had to remake yourself. You still look down on people you +consider inferior, and I’ve had to learn to respect them. I’ve had to +kill my old self--or starve.” + +“I have always admired you inordinately,” he remarked. + +“But you have never cared--how could you--whether I was being cowardly +and selfish, so long as I was superior, like you, a snob. We’re both +materialists, you, because you could afford to be and I because I +wanted to be. I haven’t changed. I want finished, rare, superlative +things as much as ever. But I hate myself because I am a materialist. +And that’s as good as changing.” + +“You’ve been unhappy.” + +She turned away. And Junius continued: “You are coming back, of course?” + +She shook her head. + +With a trace of impatience, Junius Peabody demanded: “Why not? There +isn’t any one else--another attachment--” Rebuked by her quick glance, +he apologized: “I know. What you felt was genuine. But since it is +over, done with--” + +She interrupted: “I wonder if you can understand. What happened is as +immaterial as a dream. I can’t repent. Atone. Do any of the expected +things.... I’m not sorry or ashamed. I am not even, in the accepted +sense, chastened. As you say, it is over. But I am different, deep +down, out of sight, beyond my knowledge....” + +She smiled at him. “It’s a mixed-up world. I know, now, that it isn’t +nasty.... We, ourselves, are nasty.” + +“Robert needs you.” + +With a flash of scorn she demanded: “Did he expect you to tell me so?” + +Junius shook his head. “Don’t misunderstand. Robert hasn’t any +illusions. They are all gone. He is burned out, Lilah. But I like him +better than I ever did when he was moon-struck. I think, at times, he +hates you because you took away his belief in that moon of his. I could +have told him that he was worshipping, not a moon but a glow-worm, +because, as you say, we are very much alike, you and I.” + +“We give a lovely light,” Lilah said. + +The memory of an old appreciation warmed them both. The door of the +workroom opened suddenly, and violently a head was thrust in. “Mr. +Reilly, here’s that fitting--_Oh, excuse me!_” The door slammed again, +shutting out the noisy clatter of machines, the snip-snip of scissors, +the staccato treble of women’s voices. + +Junius rose. + +“We are living very quietly at the Point,” he said. “I came down on +purpose to see you, talk to you. I won’t urge you. After all, what more +can I say than that you are needed?” + +Lilah cried desperately. “But I don’t love Robert, Junius.” + +Junius Peabody faced her, a moment, in silence. She noticed that every +detail of his dress was correct, meticulous; he displayed the interest +of a young man in the outward semblance of superiority, of pride. +Something unfamiliar in her nature caused her to recoil, almost to +resent this deliberate conforming to prejudice.... Then, as suddenly, +she admired him for this very tenacity, this unswerving adherence to an +ideal of behavior, of appearance. He took her hand. “There is such a +thing as being beyond personal happiness. I hoped that you had learned +to do without it. There is no other serenity.... You’ll come back?” + +“Perhaps.” + +She covered her face with her hands. + +She saw herself, not in the garden, not in the forest, but on the green +before the kennels, where Robert’s spaniels romped and barked. She saw +herself kneeling in the grass, fondling a wriggling puppy, stroking and +kissing the soft fur. She heard herself saying: “Oh, Robert, aren’t +they darlings!” + + +THE END + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + +Typos corrected: “saxaphone” to “saxophone” (page 114); “skiis” to +“skis” (page 191); “Troisieme” to “Troisième” (page 272); +“spinister” to “spinster” (page 315). + +Extraneous/missing punctuation corrected on pages 30, 177, 191, 269, +and 277. + +Author’s spelling of “Nietzschan” (page 14) retained. + +Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been left unchanged. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78615 *** |