Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

      Her two months on the Sabrina had been especially calculated to aid this illusion of distance. She had been plunged into new scenes, and had found in them a renewal of old hopes and ambitions. The cruise itself charmed her as a romantic adventure. She was vaguely touched by the names and scenes amid which she moved, and had listened to Ned Silverton reading Theocritus by moonlight, as the yacht rounded the Sicilian promontories, with a thrill of the nerves that confirmed her belief in her intellectual superiority. But the weeks at Cannes and Nice had really given her more pleasure. The gratification of being welcomed in high company, and of making her own ascendency felt there, so that she found herself figuring once more as the “beautiful Miss Bart” in the interesting journal devoted to recording the least movements of her cosmopolitan companions—all these experiences tended to throw into the extreme background of memory the prosaic and sordid difficulties from which she had escaped.

      If she was faintly aware of fresh difficulties ahead, she was sure of her ability to meet them: it was characteristic of her to feel that the only problems she could not solve were those with which she was familiar. Meanwhile she could honestly be proud of the skill with which she had adapted herself to somewhat delicate conditions. She had reason to think that she had made herself equally necessary to her host and hostess; and if only she had seen any perfectly irreproachable means of drawing a financial profit from the situation, there would have been no cloud on her horizon. The truth was that her funds, as usual, were inconveniently low; and to neither Dorset nor his wife could this vulgar embarrassment be safely hinted. Still, the need was not a pressing one; she could worry along, as she had so often done before, with the hope of some happy change of fortune to sustain her; and meanwhile life was gay and beautiful and easy, and she was conscious of figuring not unworthily in such a setting.

      She was engaged to breakfast that morning with the Duchess of Beltshire, and at twelve o’clock she asked to be set ashore in the gig. Before this she had sent her maid to enquire if she might see Mrs. Dorset; but the reply came back that the latter was tired, and trying to sleep. Lily thought she understood the reason of the rebuff. Her hostess had not been included in the Duchess’s invitation, though she herself had made the most loyal efforts in that direction. But her grace was impervious to hints, and invited or omitted as she chose. It was not Lily’s fault if Mrs. Dorset’s complicated attitudes did not fall in with the Duchess’s easy gait. The Duchess, who seldom explained herself, had not formulated her objection beyond saying: “She’s rather a bore, you know. The only one of your friends I like is that little Mr. Bry—he’s funny—” but Lily knew enough not to press the point, and was not altogether sorry to be thus distinguished at her friend’s expense. Bertha certainly had grown tiresome since she had taken to poetry and Ned Silverton.

      On the whole, it was a relief to break away now and then from the Sabrina; and the Duchess’s little breakfast, organized by Lord Hubert with all his usual virtuosity, was the pleasanter to Lily for not including her travelling-companions. Dorset, of late, had grown more than usually morose and incalculable, and Ned Silverton went about with an air that seemed to challenge the universe. The freedom and lightness of the ducal intercourse made an agreeable change from these complications, and Lily was tempted, after luncheon, to adjourn in the wake of her companions to the hectic atmosphere of the Casino. She did not mean to play; her diminished pocket-money offered small scope for the adventure; but it amused her to sit on a divan, under the doubtful protection of the Duchess’s back, while the latter hung above her stakes at a neighbouring table.

      The rooms were packed with the gazing throng which, in the afternoon hours, trickles heavily between the tables, like the Sunday crowd in a lion-house. In the stagnant flow of the mass, identities were hardly distinguishable; but Lily presently saw Mrs. Bry cleaving her determined way through the doors, and, in the broad wake she left, the light figure of Mrs. Fisher bobbing after her like a row-boat at the stern of a tug. Mrs. Bry pressed on, evidently animated by the resolve to reach a certain point in the rooms; but Mrs. Fisher, as she passed Lily, broke from her towing-line, and let herself float to the girl’s side.

      “Lose her?” she echoed the latter’s query, with an indifferent glance at Mrs. Bry’s retreating back. “I daresay—it doesn’t matter: I have lost her already.” And, as Lily exclaimed, she added: “We had an awful row this morning. You know, of course, that the Duchess chucked her at dinner last night, and she thinks it was my fault—my want of management. The worst of it is, the message—just a mere word by telephone—came so late that the dinner had to be paid for; and Becassin had run it up—it had been so drummed into him that the Duchess was coming!” Mrs. Fisher indulged in a faint laugh at the remembrance. “Paying for what she doesn’t get rankles so dreadfully with Louisa: I can’t make her see that it’s one of the preliminary steps to getting what you haven’t paid for—and as I was the nearest thing to smash, she smashed me to atoms, poor dear!”

      Lily murmured her commiseration. Impulses of sympathy came naturally to her, and it was instinctive to proffer her help to Mrs. Fisher.

      “If there’s anything I can do—if it’s only a question of meeting the Duchess! I heard her say she thought Mr. Bry amusing——”

      But Mrs. Fisher interposed with a decisive gesture. “My dear, I have my pride: the pride of my trade. I couldn’t manage the Duchess, and I can’t palm off your arts on Louisa Bry as mine. I’ve taken the final step: I go to Paris tonight with the Sam Gormers. They’re still in the elementary stage; an Italian Prince is a great deal more than a Prince to them, and they’re always on the brink of taking a courier for one. To save them from that is my present mission.” She laughed again at the picture. “But before I go I want to make my last will and testament—I want to leave you the Brys.”

      “Me?” Miss Bart joined in her amusement. “It’s charming of you to remember me, dear; but really——”

      “You’re already so well provided for?” Mrs. Fisher flashed a sharp glance at her. “Are you, though, Lily—to the point of rejecting my offer?”

      Miss Bart coloured slowly. “What I really meant was, that the Brys wouldn’t in the least care to be so disposed of.”

      Mrs. Fisher continued to probe her embarrassment with an unflinching eye. “What you really meant was that you’ve snubbed the Brys horribly; and you know that they know it——”

      “Carry!”

      “Oh, on certain sides Louisa bristles with perceptions. If you’d even managed to have them asked once on the Sabrina—especially when royalties were coming! But it’s not too late,” she ended earnestly, “it’s not too late for either of you.”

      Lily smiled. “Stay over, and I’ll get the Duchess to dine with them.”

      “I shan’t stay over—the Gormers have paid for my salon-lit,” said Mrs. Fisher with simplicity. “But get the Duchess to dine with them all the same.”

      Lily’s smile again flowed into a slight laugh: her friend’s importunity was beginning to strike her as irrelevant. “I’m sorry I have been negligent about the Brys——” she began.

      “Oh, as to the Brys—it’s you I’m thinking of,” said Mrs. Fisher abruptly. She paused, and then, bending forward, with a lowered voice: “You know we all went on to Nice last night when the Duchess chucked us. It was Louisa’s idea—I told her what I thought of it.”

      Miss Bart assented. “Yes—I caught sight of you on the way back, at the station.”

      “Well, the man who was in the carriage with you and George Dorset—that horrid little Dabham who does ‘Society Notes from the Riviera’—had been dining with us at Nice. And he’s telling everybody that you and Dorset came back alone after midnight.”

      “Alone—? When he was with us?” Lily laughed, but her laugh faded into gravity under the prolonged implication of Mrs. Fisher’s look. “We did come back alone—if that’s so very dreadful! But whose fault was it? The Duchess was spending the night at Cimiez with the Crown Princess; Bertha got bored with the show, and went