Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

but the being tied down: the routine—don’t you ever want to get away, to see new places and people?”

      “Horribly—especially when I see all my friends rushing to the steamer.”

      She drew a sympathetic breath. “But do you mind enough—to marry to get out of it?”

      Selden broke into a laugh. “God forbid!” he declared.

      She rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate.

      “Ah, there’s the difference—a girl must, a man may if he chooses.” She surveyed him critically. “Your coat’s a little shabby—but who cares? It doesn’t keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don’t make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop—and if we can’t keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership.”

      Selden glanced at her with amusement: it was impossible, even with her lovely eyes imploring him, to take a sentimental view of her case.

      “Ah, well, there must be plenty of capital on the look-out for such an investment. Perhaps you’ll meet your fate to-night at the Trenors’.”

      She returned his look interrogatively.

      “I thought you might be going there—oh, not in that capacity! But there are to be a lot of your set—Gwen Van Osburgh, the Wetheralls, Lady Cressida Raith—and the George Dorsets.”

      She paused a moment before the last name, and shot a query through her lashes; but he remained imperturbable.

      “Mrs. Trenor asked me; but I can’t get away till the end of the week; and those big parties bore me.”

      “Ah, so they do me,” she exclaimed.

      “Then why go?”

      “It’s part of the business—you forget! And besides, if I didn’t, I should be playing bézique with my aunt at Richfield Springs.”

      “That’s almost as bad as marrying Dillworth,” he agreed, and they both laughed for pure pleasure in their sudden intimacy.

      She glanced at the clock.

      “Dear me! I must be off. It’s after five.”

      She paused before the mantelpiece, studying herself in the mirror while she adjusted her veil. The attitude revealed the long slope of her slender sides, which gave a kind of wild-wood grace to her outline—as though she were a captured dryad subdued to the conventions of the drawing-room; and Selden reflected that it was the same streak of sylvan freedom in her nature that lent such savour to her artificiality.

      He followed her across the room to the entrance-hall; but on the threshold she held out her hand with a gesture of leave-taking.

      “It’s been delightful; and now you will have to return my visit.”

      “But don’t you want me to see you to the station?”

      “No; good bye here, please.”

      She let her hand lie in his a moment, smiling up at him adorably.

      “Good bye, then—and good luck at Bellomont!” he said, opening the door for her.

      On the landing she paused to look about her. There were a thousand chances to one against her meeting anybody, but one could never tell, and she always paid for her rare indiscretions by a violent reaction of prudence. There was no one in sight, however, but a char-woman who was scrubbing the stairs. Her own stout person and its surrounding implements took up so much room that Lily, to pass her, had to gather up her skirts and brush against the wall. As she did so, the woman paused in her work and looked up curiously, resting her clenched red fists on the wet cloth she had just drawn from her pail. She had a broad sallow face, slightly pitted with small-pox, and thin straw-coloured hair through which her scalp shone unpleasantly.

      “I beg your pardon,” said Lily, intending by her politeness to convey a criticism of the other’s manner.

      The woman, without answering, pushed her pail aside, and continued to stare as Miss Bart swept by with a murmur of silken linings. Lily felt herself flushing under the look. What did the creature suppose? Could one never do the simplest, the most harmless thing, without subjecting one’s self to some odious conjecture? Half way down the next flight, she smiled to think that a char-woman’s stare should so perturb her. The poor thing was probably dazzled by such an unwonted apparition. But were such apparitions unwonted on Selden’s stairs? Miss Bart was not familiar with the moral code of bachelors’ flat-houses, and her colour rose again as it occurred to her that the woman’s persistent gaze implied a groping among past associations. But she put aside the thought with a smile at her own fears, and hastened downward, wondering if she should find a cab short of Fifth Avenue.

      Under the Georgian porch she paused again, scanning the street for a hansom. None was in sight, but as she reached the sidewalk she ran against a small glossy-looking man with a gardenia in his coat, who raised his hat with a surprised exclamation.

      “Miss Bart? Well—of all people! This is luck,” he declared; and she caught a twinkle of amused curiosity between his screwed-up lids.

      “Oh, Mr. Rosedale—how are you?” she said, perceiving that the irrepressible annoyance on her face was reflected in the sudden intimacy of his smile.

      Mr. Rosedale stood scanning her with interest and approval. He was a plump rosy man of the blond Jewish type, with smart London clothes fitting him like upholstery, and small sidelong eyes which gave him the air of appraising people as if they were bric-a-brac. He glanced up interrogatively at the porch of the Benedick.

      “Been up to town for a little shopping, I suppose?” he said, in a tone which had the familiarity of a touch.

      Miss Bart shrank from it slightly, and then flung herself into precipitate explanations.

      “Yes—I came up to see my dress-maker. I am just on my way to catch the train to the Trenors’.”

      “Ah—your dress-maker; just so,” he said blandly. “I didn’t know there were any dress-makers in the Benedick.”

      “The Benedick?” She looked gently puzzled. “Is that the name of this building?”

      “Yes, that’s the name: I believe it’s an old word for bachelor, isn’t it? I happen to own the building—that’s the way I know.” His smile deepened as he added with increasing assurance: “But you must let me take you to the station. The Trenors are at Bellomont, of course? You’ve barely time to catch the five-forty. The dress-maker kept you waiting, I suppose.”

      Lily stiffened under the pleasantry.

      “Oh, thanks,” she stammered; and at that moment her eye caught a hansom drifting down Madison Avenue, and she hailed it with a desperate gesture.

      “You’re very kind; but I couldn’t think of troubling you,” she said, extending her hand to Mr. Rosedale; and heedless of his protestations, she sprang into the rescuing vehicle, and called out a breathless order to the driver.

      —————

II.

      In the hansom she leaned back with a sigh.

      Why must a girl pay so dearly for her least escape from routine? Why could one never do a natural thing without having to screen it behind a structure of artifice? She had yielded to a passing impulse in going to Lawrence Selden’s rooms, and it was so seldom that she could allow herself the luxury of an impulse! This one, at any rate, was going to cost her rather more than she could afford.