I

“I don’t see why you want to go to college,” said Muriel, “at all.”

Jane was taking lunch with Muriel. And Jane was very different. Her sleek brown pigtails had vanished, turned up in a knot on her neck beneath a big black hair ribbon. Her skirts were down to her boot tops and her dresses, though they were still made by Miss McKelvey, had a subtly young-ladyfied air. Jane was sixteen. It was September. Jane would be seventeen in May.

Muriel was sixteen, too, of course, and the seven black finger curls had been twisted into two, that hung down her back under a black hair ribbon, just like Jane’s, and she wore a thick, cloudy bang on her white forehead and her eyes were bigger and bluer than ever and her eyelashes longer and even more curly. She looked just like a postcard that André had sent Jane from the Tate Gallery in London last summer. “A typical Pre-Raphaelite,” he had written across it. Muriel looked almost as old as her second sister, Rosalie, thought Jane admiringly. It was the being pretty that did it. Being pretty made Muriel look old and Rosalie look young. Rosalie was twenty-one and about to become engaged, so Isabel said, to Freddy Waters.

Edith, the eldest, had married and was living in Cleveland, but had come back to her mother’s house to have her first baby. Jane privately sympathized with Muriel about it. It was awfully embarrassing to have Edith around, looking so large and queer, with great dark shadows under her big black eyes and grey hollows in her waxen cheeks, when only last Christmas she was the prettiest bride Chicago had ever seen, floating up Saint James’s aisle on old Solomon Lester’s arm, in a cloud of tulle and yards and yards of stiff gored satin, with a waist so tiny that she looked as if she’d break in two in the middle. Flora and Jane had been very much thrilled by the wedding. They had sat together in the sixth pew on the bride’s side, because Muriel was a flower girl.

Jane’s mother and Isabel had thought it was awfully funny to import old Solomon Lester to stand by his granddaughter’s side in that Episcopal chancel, when everyone knew that back in New York he was a pillar of the synagogue. Of course Edith had been on the altar guild for years, and she had no brother and her father was dead. Nevertheless, Jane’s mother and Isabel had thought it would have been better taste to have had a house wedding.

There she sat, at any rate, in a cerise silk tea-gown, at her mother’s right hand, languidly sipping her tea with lemon and looking quite as uncomfortable as she made everyone else feel. It was awfully hard on Rosalie, Isabel told Jane, to have her always in evidence when Freddy Waters came to call. And Isabel thought it was perfectly disgusting of her to go about to parties. She had a long story that Jane had never thought so terribly funny about her almost pulling the horse off his feet when she stepped into a hansom, right in front of Bert Lancaster, on her way home from one of Flora’s mother’s receptions.

Mrs. Lester, however, sitting comfortably behind her silver tea-tray, seemed sublimely unconscious that there was anything embarrassing in her presence. Isabel said that she positively encouraged Edith to go about everywhere and was continually seen in public, brazenly knitting on the most unmistakable garments, and talking of the baby in the most extraordinary way, as if it could be talked about⁠—as if it were really there. She didn’t do this in front of Jane and Flora and Muriel of course. Jane’s mother said it was the Jew coming out. They were very queer about family life.

Jane didn’t exactly see why you couldn’t talk about a baby before it was born, but obviously you didn’t, and it certainly made her feel very uncomfortable to look at Edith. There was something in the expression of Mrs. Lester’s big brown eyes, however, as they rested on her firstborn, that brought a lump into Jane’s throat. Something anxious and worried and somehow proud and tender, all mixed up. Fat, funny Mrs. Lester, who was almost as large as Edith this minute! Her napkin was always slipping off her lap and she had three double chins that cascaded down from her tiny mouth to her broad lace collar. It would seem awfully funny, Jane thought, if you were having a baby yourself, to know you must never mention it, when it would be all you would think about, all those long months.

“I don’t know why you don’t want to go to Farmington next year, Jane,” continued Muriel, “with Flora and me.”

Jane knew very well. She was very fond of Flora and Muriel⁠—why, she had known them in her perambulator! But she wanted to go to Bryn Mawr, just the same, with Agnes, and live for four years with her in Pembroke Hall in one of those double suites that looked so enchanting in the catalogue and study more French and English and, yes, get away from her family and postpone the awful day when she would have to stop being shy and make a début and go to dances with a lot of young men whom she didn’t know and compete with Flora and Muriel on their own field, which could never be hers, in a dreadful artificial race, over hurdles of cotillion partners, with an altar at the end of it and bridegrooms given away in order of excellence, like first, second, and third prizes in a public competition. Jane always thought of bridegrooms like that. That was just the way her mother and Isabel talked about them. Like something the panting bride took home and unwrapped and appraised at her leisure. Her mother and Isabel always weighed all bridegrooms’ qualities minutely in the balance and usually found them wanting. Jane knew all about bridegrooms.

Edith’s, now, had been rich and of very good family⁠—for there were very good families in Cleveland, who had moved there, years ago, from the East. But he looked very frail⁠—Jane’s mother thought almost consumptive⁠—and Edith didn’t need the money and would certainly miss living in a large city and find it hard to get on without her mother, who had always been so indulgent. Even Freddy Waters, who was not a bridegroom yet, but, according to Isabel, soon would be, had been scrupulously balanced on jeweller’s scales. Jane, facing Rosalie’s unconscious face across the luncheon table, knew perfectly well that Freddy was awfully clever and a divine dancer, but hadn’t a cent to bless himself with and had thrown himself at the feet of every rich girl in Chicago for the last seven years. Jane’s indifferent mind was crowded with snapshot biographies like that of every actual and potential bridegroom in town. And she did want to go to Bryn Mawr and get away from the family and live with Agnes and study some more French and English. It seemed a great deal simpler.

She had taken her preliminaries last spring and passed them well enough and Agnes had reserved a double suite in Pembroke Hall and her father had said explosively on one memorable occasion, “Oh, hell! Let the kid go!” But her mother and Isabel had never consented.

It was partly because of Agnes, of course, whom her mother and Isabel had never grown to like, though she was turning out to be awfully clever and had passed her preliminaries with an amazing number of high credits and might be the Middle-Western Scholar and could write essays that Miss Milgrim thought were very unusual. Agnes had actually taken a job last summer, on her father’s paper, though she was only seventeen. Jane thought it was very wonderful of her, but it seemed to be the last nail in her coffin as far as her mother and Isabel were concerned.

“A young girl in a newspaper office!” Mrs. Ward had said. Considering the tone in which it was uttered, the comment had sufficed.

“I don’t know what I’ll do without Muriel for a year,” Mrs. Lester was saying, “now Edith is gone.” Her eyes lingered pensively on Rosalie as if she sensed an approaching farewell. Her three dark-haired daughters were very dear to Mrs. Lester.

“And Flora’s mother has only Flora,” said Jane sympathetically.

A little gleam of cynicism shone in Edith’s melancholy eye.

“I dare say she’ll be glad to have her out of the way.”

“Flora’s getting old enough to notice,” sighed Mrs. Lester.

“Freddy saw her lunching alone with him at the Richelieu last Wednesday,” said Rosalie. And added with perverse pleasure, “They were having champagne.”

Mrs. Lester clucked her dismay. But it was no news to Jane. She had heard Isabel telling all about it at the dinner table on Thursday night.

“Bert Lancaster ought to be ashamed of himself,” said Mrs. Lester.

“She’s old enough to know better,” said Rosalie pertly. “How old is she, Mother?”

“She was married,” said Mrs. Lester dreamily, “the year that Edith had scarlet fever. I couldn’t go to the wedding. That makes her about thirty-eight.”

“She doesn’t look it,” said Edith. “She’s an amazing woman.”

“Bert’s thirty-five,” said Rosalie meditatively. “He told me so himself.”

“I admire her husband,” said Mrs. Lester, “for the way he takes it.”

“Mother!” said Rosalie and Edith at once. And Rosalie continued, “How can you admire him? He’s a perfect dodo!”

“He has been very much tried,” said Mrs. Lester, “these last three years.”

“He might die,” commented Edith hopefully. “He’s awfully old.”

“He’s not sixty,” said Mrs. Lester. “He’ll have to die soon to do any good.”

“Mother!” said Rosalie again. “Bert’s simply mad about her.”

“Now,” said Mrs. Lester, with meaning. “Men are all alike,” she sighed irrelevantly, as she rose from the table. “Except yours, Edie.” She put her arm around Edith as they passed through the door.

The Lesters’ living-room was awfully like the Lesters. Mrs. Lester liked comfort and the girls liked gaiety. The entire house was both comfortable and gay. It was also untidy, for Mrs. Lester was a terrible housekeeper. Her servants never stayed a minute and never seemed to pick up anything while they were there. Jane’s mother said she didn’t wonder, with the demands that were made upon them. The Lesters had lots of company and meals at all hours, and the girls, so Jane’s mother said, had never been taught to do for themselves. Jane had often seen Muriel step out of a lovely new dress and leave it lying on her bedroom floor, and her upper bureau drawer was a sight. There was hair in her comb and soiled handkerchief everywhere. Jane had been taught to be very careful about combs and soiled handkerchiefs.

Jane liked their living-room, however. The walls were covered with emerald-green silk and hung with oil paintings in great gold frames. The paintings were mostly landscapes, but there was a copy of a Murillo Madonna over the fireplace. Jane’s mother and Isabel thought it was awfully funny that the Lesters’ hearth should be dominated by the Christ-child. The furniture was rosewood, upholstered in bright green brocade and there was a grand piano in the corner. Muriel’s music was always scattered all over it, gay popular tunes that Jane loved to hear her rattle off when she had Flora and Jane and some boys in for a chafing-dish supper after their evening dancing-class. This afternoon Rosalie’s embroidery was strewn all over the rosewood sofa, and the morning paper, with the social column turned out and a copy of Town Topics and one of the Club Fellow lay on the floor by Edith’s easy chair, and Mrs. Lester’s compromising knitting was on the marble-topped table. All but two balls of blue and white worsted that had rolled under the sofa. A little fire was smouldering on the hearth and Jane thought that all the untidy litter made the large, luxurious room look very homelike and comfortable as if people lived in it and loved it. But Jane picked up the two balls of worsted and wound up the yarn.

Muriel sat down at the piano and began to play “Ta-ra-ra-ra Boom-de-ay,” singing, as her hands rattled over the keys,

“A sweet Tuxedo girl you see,
Queen of swell so‑ci‑e‑ty,
Fond of fun as fond can be,
When it’s on the strict Q.T.!”

Edith and Rosalie and Jane all joined uproariously in the chorus.

“Ta-ra-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!
Ta-ra-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!
Ta-ra-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!
Ta-ra-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!”

“That song,” said Mrs. Lester comfortably, as she picked up her knitting, “will always make me think of the World’s Fair.” The celebrated Columbian Exposition had been running all summer down in Jackson Park. Muriel slipped easily into “After the Ball,” the great band hit of the season. She sang the popular parody with pathos, as she played,

“After the Fair is over, what will Chicago do
With all those empty houses, run up with sticks and glue?
I’d rather live in Brooklyn (somebody’d know me there)
Than to live in Chicago, after⁠—the⁠—Fair.”

“We ought to go out there again some night for dinner,” said Rosalie, “before it gets too cold.”

Muriel stopped playing.

“Let’s go this week,” she said. “Let’s go tomorrow night.”

“Let’s have a party,” said Rosalie.

“Whom do you want to ask?” asked Mrs. Lester. “Besides Freddy.”

This was just like the Lesters. No sooner said than done.

“I don’t care,” said Rosalie. “Let Muriel have some kids. It’s her last fling. School begins next week.”

“Flora,” said Muriel promptly, “and Jane, of course, and Teddy Stanley⁠—he’s just crazy about Flora⁠—and Bob Withers for me and⁠—when does André get home, Jane?”

“I don’t know,” said Jane. And she really didn’t. He hadn’t said in his last letter from Paris. Jane hadn’t seen André for three months.

“He’s got to be back for school,” said Muriel. “I’ll give him a ring.”

“You’re not going, are you, Edith?” said Rosalie hopefully. Edith looked a little undecided. “It’s a tiring trip.”

Edith was still looking undecided when the Lesters’ new butler appeared in the door.

“Miss Jane Ward?” he asked hesitatingly. He hadn’t been there long enough to know Jane’s name. “You’re wanted on the telephone, miss.”

Jane got up in astonishment. She was very seldom wanted on the telephone anywhere. A call in someone else’s house was very exciting. Muriel went with her out into the back hall.

“Hello,” said Jane.

It was André’s voice. She knew it immediately. It wasn’t quite the same, though. A little huskier and deeper. It made Jane feel very queer to hear it. André really sounded like a man.

“Yes. It’s me,” she said ungrammatically.

“Who is it?” asked Muriel.

“I called up your house,” said André. “They said you were over at Muriel’s.”

“Yes. I am,” said Jane rather unnecessarily.

“I⁠—I want to see you,” said André.

“Who is it?” asked Muriel, again.

“When did you get back?” said Jane politely.

“This noon,” said André.

“Well,” said Jane, “why don’t you come over?”

“Over to Muriel’s?” inquired André. His voice seemed a little doubtful.

“Oh, no,” said Jane quickly. “Over to my house. I’ll go home.”

“All right,” said André. “How⁠—how are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Jane.

“Well,” said André, “I’ll be right over.”

“All right,” said Jane. She hung up the receiver.

“Who was it?” asked Muriel.

Jane turned to face her. She was laughing a little. She didn’t know why.

“It was André,” she said.

Muriel began to giggle.

“I thought you didn’t know when he was coming home.”

“I didn’t,” said Jane, and started for the door into the front hall.

“Where are you going?” asked Muriel.

“Home,” said Jane. “He’s coming over.”

Muriel seemed to think that was natural enough.

“Ask him to come tomorrow,” she said.

Jane was putting on her hat.

“All right,” she said. She was at the front door before she remembered her manners. She went straight back into the living-room, and shook hands with Mrs. Lester.

“I had a lovely time, Mrs. Lester,” said Jane. Mrs. Lester looked a little bewildered, but Jane didn’t stop to explain. It certainly wasn’t necessary. As soon as she reached the hall she heard Muriel giggling about it in the living-room.

“Is Isabel in?” asked Jane, as soon as Minnie opened the front door.

“No,” said Minnie.

“Is Mamma?” asked Jane.

“No,” said Minnie again.

“Minnie,” said Jane confidentially, “I’m going to have a caller.”

Minnie looked very much surprised.

“It’s André,” said Jane. “When he comes just take him into the library and say you will tell me. And, Minnie,” said Jane almost pleadingly, “don’t call up the stairs.”

This display of formality Jane felt she owed to André’s changed voice. She had been thinking of it ever since she had heard it. André must be very different. André had been away three months. André must have met lots of other girls, English ones and French ones, too, over in Europe. Still⁠—he had telephoned her just as soon as he had arrived. Jane still laughed a little, excitedly all to herself, when she thought of that.

She ran up the stairs and hurried into her bedroom. She took off her little sailor hat and went up to her bureau and began to do over her hair. She parted it very neatly and pulled it down over her forehead in front and pinned up the braid under the black hair ribbon and wished, terribly, that she had a curly bang like Muriel’s. Then she pulled her belt two holes tighter over her white shirt waist and looked critically at her figure in the mirror. Her waist was all right. It was really just as small as Muriel’s. It was smaller than Flora’s. The doorbell rang just as she arrived at that comforting decision. She took a clean handkerchief out of her upper bureau-drawer and put three drops of German cologne on it and tucked it in her belt.

Minnie appeared at the door. She was smiling all over.

“He’s come,” she said. “He looks awful big.”

Jane ran down the stairs feeling very much excited. She glanced at herself once more in the mirror under the hat-rack and then passed on to the library door. André was standing on the hearth rug. He did look awfully big, and somehow broader about the shoulders. His coat sleeves were just a little short for his arms. As soon as he saw Jane he broke into a beaming smile.

“Hello, Jane,” he said.

Jane was smiling, too, all over. She walked quickly over to him and held out her hand. His closed completely over it. He didn’t let it go immediately.

“I’m awfully glad to see you,” he said.

His voice was certainly very different. And his cheeks, though just as red, looked just a little darker and harder. Jane realized, with a sudden blush, that André had begun to shave. She almost felt as if she oughtn’t to have noticed a thing like that.

“Won’t you sit down?” said Jane politely.

“Won’t you?” said André with a smile.

Jane suddenly realized that she hadn’t. They both laughed, then, and sat down side by side on the sofa near the hearth.

“I think we might have the fire,” said Jane a little doubtfully. Isabel had it, always, when she had callers. “It’s not very cold, but it makes the room look nicer.”

André jumped up again and struck a match and lit the paper under the birch logs.

“I love this room, anyway,” said André. “It looks just like you.”

Jane flushed with pleasure. She loved the room, too, but she thought it looked just like her father. It was very different from the yellow drawing-room across the hall. It was quite small and the walls were covered with black-walnut bookcases with glass doors, behind which the leather-covered volumes of her father’s library glowed in subdued splendour. Over the bookcases were four steel engravings, one of George Washington and one of Thomas Jefferson and one of Daniel Webster and one of Abraham Lincoln⁠—the four greatest Americans, her father always said. On the mantelpiece was a mahogany bust of William Shakespeare. “The Bard of Avon” was carved in a ribbon scroll on its little pedestal. The sofa by the fire was covered in dark brown velvet and there were two big leather chairs and a revolving one, that Jane used to like to swing on when she was little, behind the big green baize-topped desk of black walnut. Near the desk was a globe on a black-walnut standard, with a barometer hanging over it. That was all there was in the room except a big branching rubber tree in the one west window. Just now the September sun was slanting obliquely in across Pine Street, striking the glass bookcase doors, making them look just a little dusty, and the firelight was dancing on the shiny surfaces of polished walnut, here and there, in the darker corners, and shining on the big brass humidor on the desk that held her father’s cigars.

André sat down again beside her on the sofa.

“What happened to you this summer?” asked André. “You look awfully grown-up.”

“It’s my hair,” said Jane, referring to the knot on her neck. “Nothing happened to any of us except the World’s Fair.”

“I must go right down there,” said André. “I never really saw it before we sailed in June.”

“Muriel wants you to go tomorrow night,” said Jane, and unfolded the plan. André was delighted. He could go, of course.

“And what have you been doing all summer?” asked Jane, when they had exhausted the subject of Muriel’s party. She had a most delightful sensation of being a real young lady. Leading the conversation, like a hostess, with ease and distinction from one subject to another. But it seemed a little strange to be talking to André like this, quite seriously on the library sofa instead of up on the playroom window seat or out in the side yard beneath the willow tree.

His face lit up at the question.

“Oh, Jane!” he said. “It’s been great. You would have just loved it. I couldn’t tell you in my letters. I⁠—I hated to come back, really, except⁠—except⁠—” His voice broke a little and sounded young and trembly. He didn’t look at her. “Except for you.”

That made him seem like the same old André. Jane felt that happy feeling again, deep down inside. But she didn’t know just what to say to him.

“Tell me what it was like,” she ventured, after a little pause.

He began then, in a great rush, just as he always did when he wanted to share things with her. Jane’s eyes grew big and round as she listened, and they never left his face. It sounded just like books. Different books, and all of them nice ones. June in London lodgings. That was like Punch and Dickens and Thackeray. And July in his grandfather’s house in Bath. That was like Jane Austen. And August and September in Paris, working with his clay in an artist’s studio, living with his father in a garret bedroom on the Rue de l’Université, eating at little iron tables on the sidewalks of cafés, and drinking at them too, red wine in carafes, as everyone did in France, why⁠—that was just like Trilby. The book that Rosalie had lent to Isabel and Jane had read, knowing perfectly well that she shouldn’t, that it wasn’t at all the kind of book her mother would wish her to read.

“A real artist, André?” she asked. “In a real studio?”

“You bet he was. A friend of Rodin’s. He wouldn’t have let me mess around except that he had always known my father. I learned a lot from him. More than in any regular class. I⁠—I did a study of your hands, Jane. I brought it back to show you.”

Jane stared entranced. Why, this was just like Trilby. Trilby’s beautiful bare foot⁠—and Little Billee.

“André! I’ll love to see it.”

“It’s pretty good,” he said. His eyes were on her hands, clasped tight in ecstasy. “I remembered just how they were.” He looked up laughing. “But you can’t have it.”

“Oh!” she said fervently, “I⁠—I don’t want it! I want you to keep it. I just want to see it⁠—”

“Who lit the fire, Minnie?” said her mother’s voice. Jane hadn’t heard the doorbell. Her mother stood in the doorway. André sprang to his feet.

“It’s André, Mamma.”

Her little look of annoyance over the fire faded instantly into one of surprise. She held out her hand and smiled up at André exactly as if he were one of Isabel’s callers.

“Why, you’ve grown up,” she said.

André smiled and blushed and Jane suddenly realized that he towered over both of them.

“You’re quite a young gentleman,” said her mother, still smiling. “Have you had a nice summer?”

“He’s been working in a studio in Paris,” said Jane. And realized instantly that it was the wrong thing to say. It didn’t please her mother.

“Oh,” she said, “in a Paris studio?”

“Yes,” said André confidingly. “It was lots of fun.” That was the one stupid thing about André. He never seemed to sense what people were thinking. Was it because he never, never cared?

“Was it, indeed?” said her mother and her tone seemed somehow to terminate André’s call.

Jane walked to the door with him.

“I’ll call up Muriel,” said André, “and see you tomorrow night.”

“Yes,” said Jane.

“I am glad to be back,” said André.

“Are you?” said Jane a little wistfully. “I’m glad you’re glad.”

Muriel telephoned to her after dinner. André was coming and so were Bob and Teddy. Flora was delighted with the plan. She was all alone in the big brown stone house. Her father had gone to New York for a board meeting and her mother had gone away rather suddenly to spend three days with her sister in Galena, who wasn’t very well. Rosalie wanted Isabel to come, too. She’d get another man.

“She said to tell Isabel,” said Muriel, giggling over the wire, “that she knew who.”

Jane knew who, too. She must mean Robin Bridges, Isabel’s latest beau. She ran back to the parlor to tell the family all about it. Isabel looked very pleased.

“That’s nice of Lily Furness to go up to stay with that unattractive sister,” said Jane’s mother.

“And in Galena, too,” said Isabel.

“Lily Furness has her nice side,” said Jane’s mother.

Jane went upstairs to see if her foulard frock needed pressing. It seemed to bring the party nearer to be doing something about it.

II

Jane woke next morning in a state of great excitement. For a minute she couldn’t quite recollect, as she lay in her big walnut bed with the early sunshine streaming in her east window, just what was going to happen that was so very nice. She felt strangely entangled by dreams that she couldn’t remember. Happy dreams, though, and vivid, but lost even as she tried to clutch after them. Then she knew. André was back. André still⁠—liked her. She was going to see André that evening at Muriel’s party.

Jane sprang from her bed and ran to the window. It was a lovely day. The sky was bright and blue above the willow tree. The tree itself was waving, silvery green, in the soft September breeze. There would be a moon that evening. She had looked it up in the weather report in the paper, the night before.

André would like the World’s Fair. He would like those vast white buildings standing stark in the moonbeams. And the twinkling lights on restless, moving water. And the terrace at the restaurant. And the music. And the crowds. It would be fun to see him see it.

Soon after breakfast she was called to the telephone. At the sound of Muriel’s voice Jane was awfully afraid that something dreadful had happened. But no, the party was getting better and better. Flora had called up Muriel to say that her father had come home from New York unexpectedly that morning. As his wife was in Galena he wanted to join the party. He had asked if Mr. Lester would let him take them all down to the fair grounds in the tally-ho.

The tally-ho! Even Muriel had thought that that would be magnificent. The Furnesses’ coach and four was quite the most splendid vehicle that Jane and Muriel had ever seen. They weren’t asked to ride on it very often. Mr. Furness had bought it only that summer and Flora herself seldom went on the elegant parties that he drove up the lake to the end of the pavement, or down to Washington Park, with the clatter of prancing hoofs and the jingle of chain harness and the toot of the triumphant horn. Mr. Furness was quite a judge of horseflesh. He always sat on the box seat, very plump and straight, his short arms stiffly outstretched to hold the four yellow reins, his whip cocked at the proper horse show angle, and his high hat cocked too, just a little bit, over his fat puffy face and great pale eyes. It was always fun to stand in the yard with Flora to watch his parties start out from under the porte-cochère. Tall, frock-coated, high-hatted gentlemen helping beautiful billowing ladies to climb up the little steps to the top of the coach in their voluminous silken flounces. Beautiful billowing ladies, blushing at the display of slender ankles. Flora’s mother was always the most beautiful and billowing and blushing of all.

And this afternoon he was coming to pick them all up at five o’clock and Jane and Isabel must be ready at the window, for Flora’s father never liked to be kept waiting, holding his pawing horses, at anyone’s door. Jane assured Muriel earnestly that she would be on the front steps. Of course she would. She didn’t even want to miss seeing the coach swing around the corner, clattering and jingling and tooting⁠—the Furnesses’ new coach⁠—to pick her up to drive all the way down to Jackson Park with André, to show him the World’s Fair.

At four o’clock Jane began very seriously dressing for the party. She solemnly considered the possibility of borrowing Isabel’s curling tongs, but the sight of her sister, standing nervously in petticoat and combing jacket, heating the tongs in question for her own use at the gas jet beside her rosewood bureau, dissuaded her from the thought. Isabel didn’t like to be bothered when she was dressing.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk to me,” she said irritably, when her mother came in, conversationally minded, and sat sociably down on the sofa. Mrs. Ward rose obediently and almost ran into Jane at the door. They walked together down the hall. All the family had learned it was better never to disturb Isabel. But her voice floated out to them, down the passage.

“Shall I wear the blue or the green?” she called abstractedly. Jane’s mother turned back, with interest.

“The green, I think, dear.”

Jane went into her own bedroom. She wouldn’t borrow the curling tongs. She would rough up her hair by running her comb through it the wrong way. That, after all, would be safer. Jane had never used curling tongs. It would be better not to experiment for such an important party.

At a quarter to five Jane came out of her front door and looked anxiously up the street. It was perfectly empty, save for one yellow ice-wagon that was waiting, halfway down the block. The big white horses stood patiently, their noses in feedbags. Their flanks were just a little yellow, as if the paint from the wagon had run into them. The iceman was a long time delivering the ice. Jane knew him well. He was a friend of Minnie’s.

Jane sat down on the top step, carefully turning up the skirt of her blue foulard frock so that she wouldn’t soil it. The mellow afternoon sunlight slanted down the quiet street. The grass plots looked yellow-green behind their iron palings. The elm trees were just a little brown and rusty with the decline of summer, but they still hung plume-like and ponderous, almost meeting over the cedar block pavement. The big red brick and brown stone houses stood tranquilly in their wide yards. Down at the corner was a grey brick block of five high-stooped residences. Jane’s mother had thought it was dreadful when they were built, five years before.

“Eyesores!” she had said. She declared they spoiled the street. She thought it would be horrible to live in them and share a party wall with a neighbor. “Dark as a pocket,” was her phrase. Jane’s father had advanced the theory that, with the rise of real estate values, they’d live to see the yards built up all around them.

“You might as well say,” Jane’s mother had said incredulously, “that we’ll all be living in flats before we die⁠—one on top of the other like sardines in a box.”

They had all laughed at that. Jane didn’t know anyone who lived in a flat except André.

The iceman came out of the house down the street, suggestively wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He hung up the ice tongs at the back of the wagon, then stepped around to take off the horses’ nosebags and climbed up over the wheel to the driver’s seat.

“Gittap!” he said. His voice echoed down the quiet block. The horses lumbered awkwardly into motion. Jane waved at him as he went by.

Suddenly the coach swung around the corner, a warning fanfare sounding on the horn.

“Isabel!” screamed Jane. It seemed terribly important not to keep Mr. Furness waiting a single second. Isabel appeared at the door. She looked very blond and pretty in her bright green dress. She had borrowed their mother’s black silk cape. She shaded her eyes against the western sun and waved cheerfully to Rosalie as the coach drew up at the door.

The groom sprang down with incredible alacrity and took up his position at the bridle of the prancing roan leaders. The horses arched their pretty necks and pawed the cedar pavement. The chain harness jingled and the smart red rosettes on their bridles fluttered with their restless motion. Jane and Isabel ran down the steps.

The coach was a chaos of festive colour and movement. Mrs. Lester had her purple parasol and Muriel her bright red frock and Flora her pale blue one. Rosalie looked lovely in rose-coloured taffeta, sitting with Mr. Furness on the box seat, but leaning back to talk to Freddy Waters, on the row behind her. Jane realized with relief that Edith had not come. But Bob and Teddy were there, and Robin Bridges for Isabel. André was on the back seat, close by the little platform where the groom stood up to blow the horn. Jane scrambled up over the back wheel to sit beside him, while Robin was helping Isabel up the little steps.

“Where’s Jane?” said Mrs. Lester, bewildered.

“I’m here!” piped Jane, brushing the dust off her flounces.

Mr. Furness waved his whip and flicked it over the shoulders of the leaders. The little groom sprang back, under peril of instant dissolution. The horses plunged and started. The groom climbed up behind Jane and André. In a minute they were trotting smartly down Pine Street and the wind was blowing freshly in Jane’s face, blowing her hair across her pink cheeks as she laughed up at André, terribly happy to be driving like this, right under the boughs of the elm trees, high up in the air, almost on a level with the second stories of the houses, laughing at André, with a whole evening before her that was going to be such fun.

The sun had long been set when they reached the fair grounds. They all climbed down from the coach and strolled in the gathering twilight past the glimmering, glamorous buildings, through the jostling, pleasure-bent crowd until they reached the restaurant.

“Let’s eat on the terrace,” said Rosalie. The September night was very mild. Mr. Furness found a waiter who made one long table out of five so all twelve of them could sit together. Jane sat between André and Freddy Waters. Freddy didn’t speak to her once, all through the meal, he was so busy talking to Rosalie on his other side and answering the sallies of Isabel from across the table. André didn’t say much, either.

“Is this like Paris?” Jane asked him. She meant the terrace and the candlelit tables and the sky overhead, with just the largest stars gleaming faintly through the yellow glow of the fair grounds.

“Something,” said André. “Paris is really just like itself.” Jane felt a little disappointed. She had hoped so much that it was.

The moon came up before the meal was over, a little lopsided, just past the full, enormous and very clear, out of the waters of the lake. It made a silver path from the horizon to the very foot of the terrace.

“There’s nothing like that in Paris,” said André solemnly. Jane felt a little better about Chicago. When dinner was over they started for the Midway. The crowds were dreadful there, but Jane loved the side shows. Rosalie had her fortune told and so did Isabel and so did Muriel. But Mr. Furness didn’t want Flora to touch the dirty gypsy and Jane didn’t want to hear her fortune with André there and Muriel at hand to giggle, Muriel had even giggled at Freddy Waters when the gypsy found a blond young man in Rosalie’s pink palm.

Then they went to the Streets of Cairo and rode riotously on camels. Mrs. Lester sat on a green bench beside Mr. Furness and laughed herself into hysteria as the girls climbed timorously up on the leather saddles, clutching at petticoats in a vain attempt to cover protruding ankles, when the dreadful animals lurched clumsily to their feet and rocked away. It was like nothing else than an earthquake, Jane decided, as she clung desperately to the awkward humps.

Later Mrs. Lester shepherded them safely past the hoochee-coochee dances and the perils of the Dahomey Village to the more adequately clothed Esquimos, who tactfully volunteered upon question, as a tribute to the Chicago climate, that they felt the cold more on the Midway than in Labrador. The Ferris wheel loomed up before them in the night. They must all go up in that, Rosalie decided.

Jane stepped into one of the swinging cars in front of André. She had never been up in the Ferris wheel before. The compartments looked as small as bird cages when dangling in midair. Jane was surprised to see that they were really almost as big as street cars. She sat down with André in a corner seat. The car swayed slightly as the wheel started. They moved up and out, then stopped again while other cars were loading. They swung slowly around the huge circumference, starting and stopping at regular intervals. The ground fell away beneath them and Jane lost all sense of movement. The car seemed suspended motionless in midair, with the ground sliding sideways beneath it and the great steel trusses of the wheel revolving slowly past the window. It paused a moment as they reached the top of the circle. The lights of the fair grounds glittered brightly below them. Long lines of yellow street lamps radiated out in the darkness.

The illuminated cable-cars on Cottage Grove Avenue crawled like mechanical toys. The glow of the city was visible at the north but the stars overhead were lost in the radiance of the myriad gas-lamps of the Midway. The silver moon looked incredibly remote, hung halfway up the eastern sky.

Jane drew in her breath with a little gasp of delight. Why⁠—flying must be like this! They started slowly down again around the great wheel. The car swung out over the circle’s edge. It seemed horribly unsupported, hanging dizzily over an abyss. Jane shut her eyes quickly and groped for André’s hand. She felt a distinct shock of surprise when his fingers closed on hers.

“I⁠—I’m giddy,” she said faintly.

André took her hand in both his own.

“Keep your eyes shut,” he said practically. He moved a little nearer on the seat and his arm rested against her shoulder. “All right, now?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jane faintly, still not daring to look. André continued to hold her hand in his. The starting and stopping went on disquietingly.

“Aren’t we nearly there?” asked Jane.

“We go around twice,” said André. “The second time without stopping.”

“Can’t I get out?” asked Jane.

“No,” said André, “but it’s all right now. You can look.”

She did, and removed her hand from his as they moved slowly by the crowded landing platform and out and up once more into the heavenly vault.

“Shut your eyes again,” said André very capably as they began the descent. He took her hand as if a precedent had been established. Jane felt his fingers close reassuringly about her own. She was roused a moment later by a giggle from Muriel. She pulled her hand away and forgot to be dizzy in the heat of her indignation. Muriel was outrageous. The car stopped at the landing stage. Everyone crowded out.

They strolled back, now, for a look at the Court of Honour before picking up the coach at the gates. Mrs. Lester was tired and walked very slowly at Mr. Furness’s side. No one said much of anything. Even Rosalie and Isabel were silent. The lights from the Japanese teahouse on the Wooded Island glimmered across the pond. A few scattered gondolas were drifting softly in the moonlight. Jane watched their graceful motion.

“Have you ever been in Venice?” she asked.

“No,” said André.

“I went there on my wedding trip,” said Mrs. Lester.

“That’s what I mean to do,” said André.

Jane walked along in silence, looking very straight before her. She was a little startled by her own thoughts.

The Court of Honour was ablaze with light and crowded with people. The strains of a Strauss waltz, rising and falling with the light September breeze, fell faintly on their ears. John Philip Sousa was conducting his orchestra in the open air band stand.

“I’d like to see the MacMonnies fountain,” said André.

“Well⁠—there it is,” said Mrs. Lester wearily. She didn’t look as if she wanted so see much of anything any more. The party strolled over to the Grand Basin and leaned against the parapet of stucco. Mrs. Lester sank on a green bench. MacMonnies’s medieval barge, propelled by Arts and Sciences, with the figure of Time at the helm, rose sharply up before them in the moonlight, amid its misty jets of water. André stood silent at Jane’s side, looking at it intently.

“I like it,” he said.

Flora was leaning a little wearily against the parapet beside her father. Isabel and Robin and Rosalie and Freddy and Muriel and the two other boys were laughing together, facing the band stand, a few feet away. The Strauss waltz was over, but Sousa was still leading his band. Suddenly he raised his arm. The high, shrill notes of a comet solo rose above the orchestral accompaniment. The sweet, sentimental strains soared over the heads of the restless, moving crowd. Freddy Waters began very softly to sing. His eyes were fixed a little mockingly on Rosalie’s pretty, laughing face. It was De Koven’s love song.

“Oh, promise me that some day you and I
Will take our love together to some sky⁠—”

Jane was looking at André’s stern young profile. He was still quite intent on the fountain. Freddy Waters continued to sing:

“Where we can be alone and faith renew⁠—”

Suddenly Flora gave a little startled cry.

“Why, there’s Mamma!” She pointed in the direction from which they had come. Jane turned quickly, in surprise, to look.

There, gliding from the darkness into light, beneath the little bridge across the lagoon, was a single gondola. The romantic figure of the gondolier stood stark in the moonlight. The light from a lamp on the parapet fell clearly on the faces of his passengers. Jane recognized them in an instant. They were Mr. Bert Lancaster and Flora’s mother. Flora’s mother, looking more beautiful than Jane had ever seen her, with a long black lace veil about her head, hiding her golden hair, framing the oval of her lovely face. A veil of mystery and romance.

It was over in a moment. The gondola turned, on a deft stroke of the oar, and the hood hid its passengers. Mrs. Lester had risen to her feet at Flora’s cry. She stood there, now, at Mr. Furness’s side, still staring at the unconscious back of the gondolier. Suddenly she threw a quick glance at Mr. Furness. Jane’s eyes followed hers. Flora’s father was looking after the gondola, too, and his great pale eyes were almost starting out of his head. His lips were trembling under his grey moustache and his face looked queer and wooden, as if all expression had been wiped out of it. Mrs. Lester looked quickly at Flora, Jane, and André. André’s eyes had never left the fountain. Mrs. Lester put her arm around Flora.

“It did look like your mother, didn’t it, dear?” said Mrs. Lester kindly. “But of course it couldn’t have been, as she’s in Galena.”

Mr. Furness stirred at that.

“We⁠—we’d best be going home,” he muttered thickly.

Mrs. Lester threw him a strangely admiring glance.

“Yes. That’s best,” she said simply. None of the others had seen it. They moved slowly off toward the entrance gates.

Jane thought it was all very funny. Mrs. Lester and Mr. Furness looked so very queer. And of course that was Flora’s mother. She had seen her quite distinctly. Suddenly she realized that Mrs. Lester was beside her.

“Wait a minute, Jane,” she said kindly. “Your frock’s unbuttoned.”

Jane paused, blushing, and Mrs. Lester’s fat friendly fingers fumbled up and down her back.

“That wasn’t Flora’s mother, Jane,” she said, as she stood behind her. “It did look very like her. But it wasn’t. Flora was mistaken.”

Jane didn’t reply. This was funnier and funnier. Why did Mrs. Lester care so much? People often saw Flora’s mother out with Mr. Bert Lancaster. Freddy Waters had seen them last week, lunching at the Richelieu.

“Jane⁠—” said Mrs. Lester, and stopped.

“Yes,” said Jane, twisting about to look at her.

“I don’t like to tell a little girl not to⁠—to tell her mother anything,” said Mrs. Lester hesitatingly, “but I wouldn’t⁠—I wouldn’t mention Flora’s mistake at home. Not even to Isabel.”

Jane looked at her wonderingly.

“It⁠—it might make trouble,” said Mrs. Lester falteringly.

Jane understood that, though she didn’t understand why. Jane knew all about things that made trouble. Things that were never forgotten and always discussed. Funny little things. Like André’s Paris studio.

“I won’t mention it, Mrs. Lester,” she said firmly.

Mrs. Lester looked incredibly grateful.

“Good little Jane,” she said; “I don’t like to give you a secret.”

Jane privately thought that it wasn’t her first. She couldn’t remember a time when there weren’t things she knew it was wiser not to say to her mother and Isabel. She smiled brightly at Mrs. Lester.

“I don’t mind,” she said.

The drive home was just a little cold and very strange and silent. Jane found herself, rather unexpectedly, on the box seat with Mr. Furness. Mrs. Lester had André in the row behind. The others sat back of them, singing a little just at first, reminiscent strains of “Oh, Promise Me,” then lapsing into silence. Mr. Furness never spoke once, all the way home. He drove very fast, flicking his horses with his whip, until they broke their trot and cantered for a step or two, then pulling them in again, with a great tug of the reins. The leaders reared once, near the Rush Street Bridge, and Jane very nearly screamed.

“I had a lovely time, Mr. Furness,” she said, as they drew up in front of the house on Pine Street. He didn’t seem to hear her.

“Good night, Mrs. Lester,” said Jane politely. “I had a lovely time.”

Mrs. Lester held her hand a moment and patted it.

“You’re a good little girl, Jane. I’m sure you can be trusted.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Lester,” said Jane. And then, “Good night, André.”

“Good night,” said André. “I’ll call you up in the morning.”

“Why does Mrs. Lester think you can be trusted?” said Isabel curiously, as she was fishing in her bag for the door-key.

“I don’t know,” said Jane. “I can’t imagine.”

Isabel opened the door. As they walked down the hall their mother called over the bannisters.

“Was it fun, girls?” She was sitting up for them in her lavender wrapper. She followed Isabel into her bedroom to talk it all over. Isabel seemed to have lots to say.

“I never saw Freddy so gone on anyone as he is on Rosalie. I think he’s really in love with her. Of course, I don’t say he would be if she didn’t have money, but⁠—” Jane’s mother closed Isabel’s door.

Jane went into her own room alone. She could hear their whispering voices, broken by low laughter, long after her light was out. It was funny, Jane thought, but it was perfectly true. Telling lies made you trustworthy.