The House of Mirth. Edith Wharton

novelty, but fresh and inviting with their awnings and flower-boxes.

      “Ah, yes—to be sure: The Benedick. What a nice-looking building! I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.” She looked across at the flat-house with its marble porch and pseudo-Georgian facade. “Which are your windows? Those with the awnings down?”

      “On the top floor—yes.”

      “And that nice little balcony is yours? How cool it looks up there!”

      He paused a moment. “Come up and see,” he suggested. “I can give you a cup of tea in no time—and you won’t meet any bores.”

      Her colour deepened—she still had the art of blushing at the right time—but she took the suggestion as lightly as it was made.

      “Why not? It’s too tempting—I’ll take the risk,” she declared.

      “Oh, I’m not dangerous,” he said in the same key. In truth, he had never liked her as well as at that moment. He knew she had accepted without afterthought: he could never be a factor in her calculations, and there was a surprise, a refreshment almost, in the spontaneity of her consent.

      On the threshold he paused a moment, feeling for his latchkey.

      “There’s no one here; but I have a servant who is supposed to come in the mornings, and it’s just possible he may have put out the tea-things and provided some cake.”

      He ushered her into a slip of a hall hung with old prints. She noticed the letters and notes heaped on the table among his gloves and sticks; then she found herself in a small library, dark but cheerful, with its walls of books, a pleasantly faded Turkey rug, a littered desk and, as he had foretold, a tea-tray on a low table near the window. A breeze had sprung up, swaying inward the muslin curtains, and bringing a fresh scent of mignonette and petunias from the flower-box on the balcony.

      Lily sank with a sigh into one of the shabby leather chairs.

      “How delicious to have a place like this all to one’s self! What a miserable thing it is to be a woman.” She leaned back in a luxury of discontent.

      Selden was rummaging in a cupboard for the cake.

      “Even women,” he said, “have been known to enjoy the privileges of a flat.”

      “Oh, governesses—or widows. But not girls—not poor, miserable, marriageable girls!”

      “I even know a girl who lives in a flat.”

      She sat up in surprise. “You do?”

      “I do,” he assured her, emerging from the cupboard with the sought-for cake.

      “Oh, I know—you mean Gerty Farish.” She smiled a little unkindly. “But I said marriageable—and besides, she has a horrid little place, and no maid, and such queer things to eat. Her cook does the washing and the food tastes of soap. I should hate that, you know.”

      “You shouldn’t dine with her on wash-days,” said Selden, cutting the cake.

      They both laughed, and he knelt by the table to light the lamp under the kettle, while she measured out the tea into a little teapot of green glaze. As he watched her hand, polished as a bit of old ivory, with its slender pink nails, and the sapphire bracelet slipping over her wrist, he was struck with the irony of suggesting to her such a life as his cousin Gertrude Farish had chosen. She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate.

      She seemed to read his thought. “It was horrid of me to say that of Gerty,” she said with charming compunction. “I forgot she was your cousin. But we’re so different, you know: she likes being good, and I like being happy. And besides, she is free and I am not. If I were, I daresay I could manage to be happy even in her flat. It must be pure bliss to arrange the furniture just as one likes, and give all the horrors to the ash-man. If I could only do over my aunt’s drawing-room I know I should be a better woman.”

      “Is it so very bad?” he asked sympathetically.

      She smiled at him across the teapot which she was holding up to be filled.

      “That shows how seldom you come there. Why don’t you come oftener?”

      “When I do come, it’s not to look at Mrs. Peniston’s furniture.”

      “Nonsense,” she said. “You don’t come at all—and yet we get on so well when we meet.”

      “Perhaps that’s the reason,” he answered promptly. “I’m afraid I haven’t any cream, you know—shall you mind a slice of lemon instead?”

      “I shall like it better.” She waited while he cut the lemon and dropped a thin disk into her cup. “But that is not the reason,” she insisted.

      “The reason for what?”

      “For your never coming.” She leaned forward with a shade of perplexity in her charming eyes. “I wish I knew—I wish I could make you out. Of course I know there are men who don’t like me—one can tell that at a glance. And there are others who are afraid of me: they think I want to marry them.” She smiled up at him frankly. “But I don’t think you dislike me—and you can’t possibly think I want to marry you.”

      “No—I absolve you of that,” he agreed.

      “Well, then—?”

      He had carried his cup to the fireplace, and stood leaning against the chimney-piece and looking down on her with an air of indolent amusement. The provocation in her eyes increased his amusement—he had not supposed she would waste her powder on such small game; but perhaps she was only keeping her hand in; or perhaps a girl of her type had no conversation but of the personal kind. At any rate, she was amazingly pretty, and he had asked her to tea and must live up to his obligations.

      “Well, then,” he said with a plunge, “perhaps that’s the reason.”

      “What?”

      “The fact that you don’t want to marry me. Perhaps I don’t regard it as such a strong inducement to go and see you.” He felt a slight shiver down his spine as he ventured this, but her laugh reassured him.

      “Dear Mr. Selden, that wasn’t worthy of you. It’s stupid of you to make love to me, and it isn’t like you to be stupid.” She leaned back, sipping her tea with an air so enchantingly judicial that, if they had been in her aunt’s drawing-room, he might almost have tried to disprove her deduction.

      “Don’t you see,” she continued, “that there are men enough to say pleasant things to me, and that what I want is a friend who won’t be afraid to say disagreeable ones when I need them? Sometimes I have fancied you might be that friend—I don’t know why, except that you are neither a prig nor a bounder, and that I shouldn’t have to pretend with you or be on my guard against you.” Her voice had dropped to a note of seriousness, and she sat gazing up at him with the troubled gravity of a child.

      “You don’t know how much I need such a friend,” she said. “My aunt is full of copy-book axioms, but they were all meant to apply to conduct in the early fifties. I always feel that to live up to them would include wearing book-muslin with gigot sleeves. And the other women—my best friends—well, they use me or abuse me; but they don’t care a straw what happens to me. I’ve been about too long—people are getting tired of me; they are beginning to say I ought to marry.”

      There was a moment’s pause, during which Selden meditated one or two replies calculated to add a momentary zest to the situation; but he rejected them in favour of the simple question: “Well, why don’t you?”

      She coloured and laughed. “Ah, I see you are a friend after all, and that is one of the disagreeable things I was asking for.”

      “It wasn’t meant to be disagreeable,” he returned amicably. “Isn’t marriage your vocation? Isn’t it what you’re all brought