I

Jane sat at the wheel of her motor, absentmindedly threading her way through the congested traffic of Sheridan Road. She had just returned to the West from her so-called holiday at Gull Rocks and was running into town to take tea with Isabel at her mother’s.

Jane loved to drive a car and she loved the sense of relief, of escape, of expansion that she always experienced when she had left Gull Rocks behind her. The summer had been difficult. Jane was reviewing it in thought as she rolled down the boulevard. She was thinking of the old, old Carvers, now both over eighty; and of sacrificed Silly, who, a wiry sixty, never left home for an hour; and of Alden, who was such a stuffed shirt, a cartoon of a banker; and of the complications presented by the month in which Robin Redbreast and the twins had been with them, and of how Cicily had not realized when she sent them East with just Molly, the nurse, what it did to an old couple of eighty-odd to shelter three roistering great-grandchildren under their roof for thirty-one days; and of how Stephen still incredibly loved the place, and young Steve, too, and of how they had won seven races together and had been presented with a silver cup at the annual yacht club dinner, and of how delighted old Mr. Carver had been! Like a child, Mr. Carver was, and Stephen, too, and young Steve, over that silver cup! It was absurd of them, but it was very endearing. The summer had had its better moments. Nevertheless, Jane was glad to be home again.

It was a lovely late September afternoon. The lake still held its shade of summer blue. Its little curving waves, so unlike the ocean ones, were breaking and rippling along its yellow beaches. Jane could see them out of the corner of her eye, across the well-kept lawns of the squat, square brick and terra-cotta houses that lined the waterfront. The geometric, skyscraping angles of the Edgewater Beach Hotel loomed up before her.

Curious to think that she had known this waterfront when it was a waste of little yellow sand dunes and scrub-oak groves. Not a house in sight. Just stunted oaks and a few stone pines and sand⁠—sandy roads along which you had to push your bicycle. Your bicycle⁠—your Columbia Safety! It wasn’t very far from here, just south of the old white limestone Marine Hospital, that she had picnicked with André and his father and mother the night that he had asked her to marry him. Asked her to marry him on the moonlit beach that had long since been gobbled up, filled in, and landscaped in the Lincoln Park extension. The very place had vanished, like the boy and girl, who had turned into Mrs. Stephen Carver of Lakewood and André Duroy, academician and distinguished sculptor.

There was a Diana of André’s now in the Art Institute. Jane often dropped in to look at it. Often? Come, now, old girl, thought Jane, challenging with a smile her little mood of sentiment, how often? Twice a year, perhaps. She never found time for the Art Institute as often as she meant to. Still, she never went there without pausing for a moment before André’s Diana.

Flora had never written much about him. More about his young wife, who seemed to be quite a girl. Quite a girl, in the discreet, sophisticated French manner that you read about in books and never quite believed in. Flora had a gift with the pen and Jane felt she knew a great deal about Cyprienne. Cyprienne was thirty-three. There was a lot of talk, Flora had said, about her and a young attaché in the British Embassy. His mother, a grand old dowager, was fearfully upset about it, for there was a name and a title and he was an only son. She was a Catholic, of course, and would never divorce. André was only fifty-two. It was hard on the young attaché. It was even harder, Jane thought, with Victorian simplicity, on André. Flora had never attempted to describe his reactions. Jane knew, however, just what kind of a husband André would be. There was enough of American upbringing in André, enough of Victorian Pine Street, to make him loathe a situation like that. And yet be kind⁠—like all good American husbands who put up with their restless wives.

Restless wives⁠—Cicily. A little unconscious smile played over Jane’s lips as she paused for the traffic light at the entrance of the park and thought of how silly she had been to worry so much about Cicily last spring. The child had written her such happy letters all summer, and the moment she had seen her face, two days ago, at the gate of the Twentieth Century in the La Salle Street Station, she had known that the trouble, whatever it was, had blown over. It was nice for Cicily that Belle had taken that little house in Lakewood. She was full of plans for the early autumn parties. She had bought some pretty clothes.

They would all have a pleasant winter together, reflected Jane, as she rolled through the southern entrance of the park and out onto the stream-like bend of the Lake Shore Drive. It was a lovely street, she thought, edging that great, empty plane of blue and sparkling water. One of the loveliest city streets in the world. If it were in Paris, you would cross the ocean to see it. If it were in London, you would have heard of it all your life. If it were in Venice, the walls of the world’s art galleries would be hung with oils and watercolours and etchings of its felicities of tint and line. But here, in Chicago, no one paid much attention to it. The decorous row of Victorian houses, withdrawn in their lawns, were discreetly curtained against that dazzling wash of light and colour. Only the new, bare, skyscraping apartments, rising here and there flush from the pavement, seemed aware of the view. They cheapened it, they commercialized it, they exploited it, but at least they knew it was there.

The Oak Street Beach, as Jane rolled past it, looked like a Sorolla canvas in the mellow afternoon sunshine. The golden sands were streaked and slashed and spotted with brilliant splashes of colour. Bathers, in suits of every conceivable hue, were sunning themselves on the beach. Men, incredibly brown, were breasting the blue waves. Girls were shrieking with delight in the nearer breakers. Children were paddling in the shallows. Jane had known the end of Oak Street before the beach had been there. The curve of filled-in land to the south had created it. Oak Street used to end in a row of waterlogged pilings, held in place by blocks of white limestone. Pilings on which ragged fishermen had sat, with tin cans of bait and strings of little silver fish at their side. It seemed just a year or two to Jane since she had seen the end of Oak Street looking just like that.

“Chicago,” thought Jane solemnly, “makes you believe in Genesis. It makes you believe that in six days the Lord made heaven and earth.”

Jane loved Chicago. They would all have a pleasant winter together.

II

“I want to talk to you,” Isabel had whispered. “Don’t say anything in front of Mamma.” She was handing Jane her teacup as she spoke, in the little brown library. Mrs. Ward, preoccupied with misgivings on the consistency of the new cook’s sponge cake, had not heard her. Jane had looked up, a little startled, into Isabel’s plump, comfortable countenance. Her eyes looked rather worried.

“And how was Mrs. Carver’s arthritis?” Mrs. Ward was inquiring of Jane. “Poorly, I suppose, in that damp climate. We had a lovely summer in Chicago.”

Mrs. Ward always loved to talk about the infirmities of other old ladies, and she felt the need at the moment, to justify, in the minds of her daughters, her and Minnie’s contested decision to spend the dog-days in town. Jane let the statement pass unchallenged. No one could do anything with Minnie, and her mother had borne the heat very well. If she liked to spend the summer one mile from Chicago’s loop⁠—Isabel did look worried, thought Jane, as she commented favourably on the sponge cake. Probably Minnie was raising some kind of ruction again.

When she stood up to go an hour later, Isabel rose also.

“Run me home in your car, Jane,” she said.

The two sisters left the house together.

“Well, what is it?” asked Jane, as soon as they were seated in the motor.

“We can’t talk here,” said Isabel. “The traffic’s too noisy. Run me out on the lake front. Isn’t this street awful? We ought to make Mamma move.”

They certainly ought, thought Jane. Stripped of its elms, widened to twice its size, invaded by commerce and metamorphosed into North Michigan Boulevard, Pine Street bore no resemblance to the provincial thoroughfare of Jane’s childhood. The wide yards had vanished, and many of the old redbrick and brownstone houses had been pulled down to make way for the skyscrapers. Those that were left were defaced by billboards or disfigured with plate-glass show windows, in which gowns and cosmetics and lingerie were displayed for sale. Mrs. Ward was the only old resident, now living south of Chicago Avenue.

Jane turned down Superior Street in search of quiet. As they rolled past the dirty, decaying façade of a row of boardinghouses, she turned curiously to look at her sister. But Isabel was staring straight before her down the dusty street, her eyes on the flash of brilliant blue at the end of it that was the lake.

“Let’s park on the curve,” she said, as Jane turned into the outer drive.

Jane drew up at the edge of the parkway. The curve commanded a view of the Oak Street Beach again, seen now across blue water, with a ragged fringe of skyscrapers beyond it, outlined against a sunset sky.

“What’s on your mind, old girl?” said Jane.

“Can’t you guess?” said Isabel.

Jane looked at her with increasing uneasiness. This curious reticence was very unlike Isabel. Isabel was usually delighted to break the bad news.

“No,” said Jane. “I can’t.”

“It’s about Belle,” said Isabel.

“Isabel!” cried Jane. “She’s not having another baby?”

“No,” said Isabel. “I almost wish she were. It might help matters. But then, again, it might only make them worse.”

“What are you talking about?” cried Jane.

Isabel looked at her for a moment in silence.

“Cicily and Albert,” she said.

Jane really felt her heart turn over. She stared, dumbfounded, at Isabel.

“Cicily and⁠—Albert?” she stammered.

“It’s making Belle awfully unhappy,” said Isabel. Then, almost angrily, “Jane, you don’t mean to say you haven’t noticed it?”

“How could I have noticed it?” cried Jane, almost angrily in her turn. “I’ve been away all summer. I don’t believe it, anyway. Cicily wouldn’t⁠—Cicily couldn’t⁠—”

“Well, Cicily has,” said Isabel grimly.

“I don’t believe it,” said Jane again.

“You’ll have to believe it,” said Isabel sharply. “She was with him every minute all summer. She sent the children to Gull Rocks to get them out of the way. She used to motor out with him to that damned airport and fly with him all day and then motor in town at night and dine with him at the night clubs. Of course I don’t say there was any real harm in it, Jane, but it made Belle perfectly miserable. She felt so humiliated⁠—and bewildered. Why, Cicily was her best friend.”

“What⁠—what does Jack think?” asked Jane slowly.

“I don’t know what he thinks,” said Isabel. “He’d be the last, of course, to criticize Cicily. He acts⁠—he acts exactly as if it weren’t happening.” Her voice was trembling a little. “I wouldn’t speak to him about it for worlds.”

“Of course not,” said Jane quickly. “It⁠—it’s not a thing to talk about. But I know you’re exaggerating it, Isabel. You know Cicily⁠—”

“Yes, I know Cicily,” put in Isabel ironically.

“She’s pretty and gay and only twenty-eight. She’s been married nine years and she never really had her fling. I⁠—I suppose Albert turned her head. I think it’s outrageous of him to take advantage of her⁠—”

“Take advantage of her!” cried Isabel.

“Take advantage of her inexperience⁠—”

“Jane! You know as well as I do that such affairs are always the woman’s fault! The idea of Cicily, the mother of three children⁠—”

“It’s just a harmless flirtation!” cried Jane. She was conscious of blind prejudice as she spoke. She knew nothing about it.

“It’s not a very pretty flirtation,” said Isabel.

“I agree with you,” said Jane soberly.

“And it’s made a different woman of Cicily. Surely, Jane, you saw⁠—”

“I saw she looked very happy,” said Jane.

“A woman’s always happy,” said Isabel, “when she’s falling in love.”

“She’s not falling in love,” said Jane decidedly. She saw it all clearly now, in a flash of revelation. “She’s just falling for Albert. She’s falling for excitement and admiration and fun. She’ll snap out of it, Isabel.”

“Will you speak to her?” asked Isabel.

“I⁠—don’t⁠—know,” said Jane slowly. “I don’t know if it would do any good. Don’t you remember how you felt yourself, Isabel, about⁠—about parents⁠—speaking? It only irritated you.”

“I certainly don’t!” cried Isabel sharply. “There was never any occasion for parents to speak about a thing like that to me. Or to you, either, Jane.”

Jane sat a moment in silence, staring across the deep blue water at the glowing embers in the Western sky.

“I can remember⁠—I can remember,” she said slowly, “how I felt about parents⁠—mixing in and⁠—and spoiling things that were really lovely⁠—”

“What things?” pursued Isabel hotly. “You never had a beau in your life, Jane, after you married Stephen⁠—unless you count little Jimmy Trent! But this⁠—this is serious.”

“Perhaps,” said Jane. “I’ll think it over. But somehow I don’t believe much in parental influence. It’s something inside yourself that makes you behave, you know. Matthew Arnold knew⁠—‘the enduring power not ourselves which makes for righteousness.’ I don’t believe that Cicily would ever really be unkind⁠—would ever knowingly hurt others.”

“But she is hurting them!” cried Isabel. “She’s hurting Belle, this minute!”

“Well, she’ll stop,” said Jane stoutly. “She’ll stop when she realizes.”

Isabel opened the door of the motor.

“I’m going to walk home,” she said. She stood a moment hesitatingly by the side of the car. “It⁠—it upsets me so to talk about it, Jane.” Her lips were trembling again. “I’m going to walk home and⁠—and think of something else. I don’t want to worry Robin. We’ve never talked about it. I suppose that seems funny to you, Jane, but⁠—” She broke off a little helplessly.

“No. No, it doesn’t,” said Jane. “I’m glad you haven’t. I never worry Stephen. So many things blow over, you know, and if you haven’t said anything⁠—”

“Exactly,” said Isabel.

Jane stared a moment in silence, down into her troubled eyes.

“Children can just wreck you,” said Isabel.

Jane nodded.

“Give my love to Robin,” she said. She set the gears in motion and moved slowly off down the boulevard. “Little Jimmy Trent,” she was thinking. So that was all that Isabel had ever realized. She felt a sudden flood of sympathy for Cicily. Cicily, intoxicated with the wine of admiration. Cicily succumbing to the transcendent temptation to quicken a passion, to love and be loved. It was all very wrong, however. And very dangerous. Such temptations must be overcome. The wine of admiration could be forsworn. Cicily would, of course, forswear it. She could not speak to her. But she could watch. She could worry. That was what parents were for.

III

It was one o’clock on a late November morning and the first Assembly ball was in full swing in the ballroom of the Blackstone Hotel. The room was brilliantly lighted. Its gilded walls were hung with smilax and banked with palms and chrysanthemums. The floor was filled with dancers. A few elderly ladies, in full evening dress, were clustered in little groups on a row of gilt chairs, under the palms. A great crowd of young men were massed near the door. From that crowd, black broadcloth figures continually detached themselves, dashed into the revolving throng, tapped young women cavalierly on naked shoulders, drew them from their partners’ embrace and stalked solemnly off with them.

Modern dances always seemed stalking and solemn to Jane. She was sitting in the balcony that ran round the room, her arms on the smilax-hung railing gazing down at the kaleidoscope of light and movement and colour on the floor. She was wearing a new black velvet evening gown⁠—everyone wore a new gown to the first Assembly⁠—and she was vaguely wondering if the cane seat of her gilt chair was creasing the skirt. The balcony was crowded with other middle-aged women in other new evening gowns, sparsely attended by a sprinkling of middle-aged men.

Twenty feet away down the line of spectators sat Isabel, with Stephen, resigned and somnolent, standing behind her chair. Robin sat at Jane’s elbow. Jane knew everyone present and was tired of seeing them. She had seen them at an endless succession of first Assembly balls. Tonight they looked just as they always had. At the other balls they had worn other new evening gowns. That was the only difference. On an Oriental rug at the ballroom door a row of Jane’s contemporaries stood in line to receive the guests as they entered the room. Jane could remember when the hostesses at an Assembly ball had looked to her like a group of bedizened old ladies, pathetically tricked out in the garb of folly. Now the dancers seemed to her incredibly young.

Jane was watching Jenny, revolving on the floor beneath in the arms of what looked to Jane like an extremely Bacchic young man. She was wishing that Steve would cut in on her and take her away from him. Steve was a bit Bacchic, too, however. Too Bacchic to notice his sister’s predicament. He was standing by the receiving line, rallying Cora Delafield. Cora Delafield was at least five years Jane’s senior, but she rather specialized in Bacchic young men. Steve thought her very entertaining. Jane wished that Cicily would come. Her dinner-party was late. Jane wanted, ridiculously, to look just once at Cicily in her new white velvet, before taking Stephen home to bed.

Robin said something, but Jane could not hear it. She could not hear anything above the clash of the jazz orchestra at the end of the balcony. Modern balls were frightfully noisy. And there were always two orchestras, so you never had one single intermittent moment of peace. Stephen looked dog-tired. It was mean of her to keep him up a moment longer. It was mean of her to have brought him at all. Absurd to go to balls when you were fifty! You danced three times, perhaps, lumbering around the room with the more courteous men of your dinner-party, and then you retired to the balcony and talked to your brother-in-law, while you watched your own children.

Good gracious! Jenny’s young man had almost fallen down in negotiating a turn. He had torn the flounce of her blue chiffon gown. Steve had disappeared, taking Cora Delafield with him. Cora’s young men would do anything in reason, but they would not lead her out on the dancing floor. She tipped the scales at two hundred pounds.

Cora had the right idea, however. If you were going to go to balls in your fifth decade, it was much better to go in for Bacchic young men, on any terms, than to sit in the balcony, watching your own children and straining your ears to catch the amiable conversation of your brother-in-law, over the din of those infernal saxophones.

Why, there was Jack! Jack cutting in on Jenny, the darling! Jack could always be relied on. Jenny was talking and they were both laughing uproariously, casting discreet glances back at the Bacchic young man, left standing befuddled in the centre of the ballroom floor. Jenny was undoubtedly repeating some alcoholic anecdote! Girls did not care nowadays what they said, or what was said to them. Jane tried to imagine what would have happened to a Bacchic young man at a dance in Chicago in the middle nineties. Social ostracism⁠—nothing less. Prohibition had turned ballrooms into barrooms.

But where was Cicily? There was Belle, lovely-looking, too, in that silver gauze gown. Could Isabel be right? Was she worried, was she really worried, over Cicily and Albert? She did not look as if she had a care in the world, one-stepping mystically, with sweet raised face and half-closed eyes, in the arms of Billy Winter. He was a nice young man. Why didn’t Jenny fancy him? Why didn’t Jenny fancy anyone? She was twenty-six years old. It was nonsense⁠—it was utter nonsense⁠—her talk of wanting to leave home and live in New York and run dog kennels in Westchester County with Barbara Belmont.

But where was Cicily? If Jack and Belle were here, Cicily and Albert must be somewhere in the offing. They had come up in a taxi together, perhaps, from some young married dinner. Stopped, possibly, at a night club. Jane suddenly realized how tired she was. And how tired of wondering, as she had wondered for two months, just what was happening to Cicily in taxis and in night clubs.

The lights were dimming. The lights were going out. The orchestra was silenced. A spotlight shone brilliantly down on the centre of the ballroom floor. A young man indistinguishable in the darkness, his shirtfront picked out startlingly in the silver radiance, was shouting that Miss Ivy Montgomery, from the company of “Hot Chocolates” now playing at the Selwyn, would offer a dance. A slender quadroon in a spangled evening gown slipped suddenly into the spotlight. Her sleek oiled hair was shining. She smiled hugely, good-humouredly, her white teeth gleaming in the brutal orifice of her thick rouged lips. The orchestra crashed into a barbaric orgy of sound.

Where was Cicily, thought Jane, as she watched the contorted evolutions of Miss Montgomery’s Charleston⁠—or was it a Black Bottom?⁠—as she listened to the applause that broke from the apparently spellbound audience at the end of the dance. Where was Cicily, she thought, as two darky comedians followed Miss Montgomery into the spotlight, and tapped their flapping shoes and cracked their age-old jokes, to the accompaniment of throbbing saxophones and bursts of appreciative laughter.

The lights flashed up. The darkies had vanished. The dancers, in twos and fours and sixes, took possession once more of the ballroom floor. Jane glanced at her wrist watch. It was almost two o’clock. But there was Cicily! Cicily, slim and slinky in the folds of the new white velvet, passing down the receiving line, bending her dandelion head in charming deference before the dowager hostesses. And Albert was behind her. Well⁠—Jane had known he would be. He was good-looking. He stood waiting, tranquilly, under a palm, for Cicily to complete her amenities. Belle floated by, with Billy Winter again, her gauze flounces brushing her husband’s knee. She nodded serenely at him. Cicily abandoned the last dowager with a final radiant smile. There was a faint shadow of inattention in that radiance, however. It sprang from some inner joy. Jane shrewdly suspected that Cicily had not heard one word that the dowager had been saying. Albert stepped out to meet her. His fine young face was absolutely impassive. As Cicily moved into his arms, her glance swept the balcony. Meeting her mother’s eye, she smiled so innocently, so gaily, that no one but Jane herself would ever have sensed that there was something a bit unnatural in the innocence, in the gaiety, of that smile.

“She wishes that I weren’t watching her,” thought Jane, as she smiled and nodded brightly in response.

IV

Jane was walking briskly down the main street of Lakewood, enjoying the first winter snowfall. The air was damply mild. Great feathery flakes were drifting all around her. The ground was covered with a thin, wet blanket of snow. The roofs of the village stores, the bare boughs of the oak trees, were frosted with soft, white icing. The whiteness of the world contrasted vividly with the yellow grey of the December sky.

Jane was on her way to the Woman’s Club, to watch her grandchildren’s dancing class. She often dropped in, on Tuesday afternoons, to look at it. In the midst of the uncertainties and perplexities engendered by the sight of her own children, Jane always found a glimpse of her grandchildren very comforting. Moreover, in a world of shifting values, of mental hazards and moral doubts, there was something absurdly reassuring in the sight of anything that remained so exactly the same as dancing school.

This afternoon, for instance, as soon as she entered the vestibule of the Woman’s Club, the reassuring notes of the “Blue Danube” fell caressingly on her ears. Mr. Bournique was still teaching children to waltz. Teaching the twins to waltz, as he had taught Cicily and Jenny and Steve, as his father had taught Jane herself. Jane could distinctly recall her sensations when she had waltzed to the strains of the “Blue Danube,” not with a partner, but standing with Flora and Muriel in a long line of little girls, with a long line of little boys behind them, her eyes conscientiously fixed on old Mr. Bournique’s striped trouser legs and black patent-leather shoes. She remembered her white organdie dress, with pink ribbons run through it, and the fat pink satin bows on her thin pigtails. That was before she was old enough to be ashamed of her pigtails, to long for curls⁠—before she had met André. The Bourniques were an institution in Chicago, as old as the aristocracy of the Western city.

Jane entered the ballroom. And there was Mr. Bournique, grey-haired and slender, dominating the scene, gliding and bending to the thin, tinkling strains of the Woman’s Club piano. And there was the line of little girls and the line of little boys, gliding and bending behind him, their eyes conscientiously fixed on his striped trouser legs and black patent-leather shoes. Slick-haired little boys in blue serge suits and fairy-like little girls in light thin dresses. One fat little boy who could not keep time and one fat little girl who would never get partners. Every dancing class, reflected Jane, as she sat down at the end of the row of indifferent governesses in the far corner of the room, every dancing class had one fat little girl who was always reduced to dancing with Mr. Bournique, who could not aspire to even the fat little boy who could not keep time for a partner.

Her grandson noticed her immediately. He waved and grinned and lost his step in welcome. His sister was an excellent dancer. She had inherited Jane’s straight hair, however. But straight hair was not the curse of woman that it had been forty years ago. Belle’s little daughters’ wiry black curls bobbed up and down like shavings, just as Muriel’s had done in the late eighties. Mr. Bournique’s castanets clapped sharply in his gloved hands. The music stopped abruptly in the middle of a bar.

“Take partners!” he said.

The little girls sat down promptly on the benches that lined the room. The little boys walked deliberately over to them. They scanned the little girls’ indifferent faces indifferently. They bowed profoundly before their chosen partners. The little girls rose and curtsied. Mr. Bournique’s castanets clapped sharply in his gloved hands. The music started abruptly. The children began waltzing falteringly, their heads bent, their eyes on their own feet. All but the fat little girl, who, clasped in the firm gloved hands of Mr. Bournique, was moving about the room with the grace of a fairy.

This was much more fun, thought Jane, than watching a first Assembly ball. And it was reassuring to see so much Deportment⁠—deportment with a capital D! It might be the late eighties all over again! Just then Jane heard Cicily’s low laugh ring out happily in the hall without.

“Oh, yes, you do!” she was saying. “They’re utterly darling!”

Jane’s startled eyes were on the doorway when Cicily and Albert entered the room. Her first impression was that never, never, had she seen the child looking so pretty. Her dark fox fur, her little black hat, were silvered with melting snowflakes. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright and her lips were parted in a little possessive smile of provocative mockery. She was glancing over her shoulder at Albert⁠—Albert, who was obviously entering the ballroom under protest, who would much rather have prolonged his walk with Cicily in the privacy of the first December snowstorm without. She sank into a chair near the entrance, laughed up at him, and then, with a little gesture of confiding intimacy, reached up to touch his sleeve and motion him down into the seat at her side. He covered her hand with his own and sat down, saying something straight into her sparkling eyes. Cicily did not reply. She withdrew her hand and turned away and sat looking at the waltzing children, her eyes bright with happiness, her lips still parted in a little involuntary smile. Albert sat motionless, his eyes upon her profile.

Jane turned away her glance. She felt suddenly guilty. This⁠—this was just like eavesdropping, listening at doors, peeking through keyholes. She would not look at Cicily again.

Jane never knew how long she had remained, her unseeing eyes fixed rigidly on the little faltering dancers, wondering, helplessly, what ought to be done. When next she noticed him, Mr. Bournique, arm in arm with a decorous little lady who had to stand on tiptoe to reach his elbow, was leading the final grand march around the room. He paused at the door, to bow meticulously to each tiny couple as they made their ultimate exit. Over his grey head Jane could see that Cicily’s chair was empty. So they had seen her and, thinking themselves unseen, had slipped away together into the December snowstorm. Where were they now? What were they saying? Into what perilous indiscretion was Cicily falling? Little John Ward was pulling at her elbow.

“Did you see Mother, Grandma, here with Uncle Albert?”

Jane stared a moment in silence down into his wide brown eyes.

“Was she here, darling?”

“Yes. But she didn’t wait. How’ll we get home? Jane’s putting on her overshoes.”

In the tangle of perplexities confronting her, Jane recognized with relief that her first practical obligation was clear. She would walk home in the dark with the twins.

V

Jane sat in a corner of Cicily’s French drawing-room, waiting for Cicily to come home. Walking with the twins through the snowy streets of Lakewood, withdrawn from their artless prattle in the sanctuary of thought, Jane had finally arrived at a decision. Something must be done⁠—and done quickly. She would speak to Cicily. She would not procrastinate. She would not falter. She would go in with the twins and talk with Cicily that very afternoon. Perhaps she would find Albert in the little French drawing-room. If so, she would wait, stonily, tactlessly, until he had withdrawn.

She had not found Albert. The maid at the door had informed her that Mrs. Bridges had not yet come in. The girl had thrown a concerned glance at Jane’s snow-powdered coat and saturated shoes. She had turned on one drawing-room lamp and lit the fire under the Marie Laurencin and had brought Jane a little pot of tea on a painted tray.

Jane had consumed the reviving liquid very gratefully. The twins were upstairs in the playroom, doing their homework. Robin Redbreast was eating his supper in the dining-room across the hall. When she had first come in, Jane had not felt equal to sustaining a conversation with even Robin Redbreast. She had finished her tea and was gazing, somewhat like a rabbit fascinated by a snake, at the blank chocolate-coloured eyes and thin, cruel lips of the Marie Laurencin, thinking that the opal-tinted lady had rather the air of passing an ironical comment on her own agitated state of mind.

The mood of the Marie Laurencin was the modern one of detached cynicism. “Well, what of it?” she seemed to be saying. “Why carry on like this about it? Surely you’re not surprised!”

Jane tried to think that she was not surprised, feeling an absurd obligation to justify her Victorian point of view to the opal-tinted lady. At least she admitted that she should not be surprised. This was only the sort of thing that happened, unhappily, now and then in every age. However, when it concerned your own daughter⁠—But Albert Lancaster was merely running true to form. He was his father’s son. He had dragged Cicily into this mess. He would soon tire of her. And then⁠—what a hell of readjustment awaited the poor child.

Jane was roused from revery by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Cicily’s light step was heard in the hall. She was alone. Albert had not come in with her. Her voice, very practical and pleasant, was addressing the waitress at the door.

“Send the car to the Woman’s Club for the twins at once, Ella. I forgot to stop in at their dancing school. They must be waiting.”

Jane heard the waitress start to speak, but Cicily did not pause for a reply. She appeared, abruptly, in the door of the little French drawing-room. The shoulders of her coat, her dark fox fur, her little black hat were all thickly frosted with soft wet snow. She must have been walking in the storm ever since she had left the Woman’s Club. She did not see Jane. She walked quickly over to the antique mirror that hung between the windows. Standing directly in front of it she stared, wide-eyed, at her own reflection in the glass. Jane stared, too, a startled, involuntary stare, at the face in the mirror. The cheeks were rose-red, the eyes were starry bright, the lips were parted in a reminiscent smile. Suddenly Cicily gave a little gasp.

“Oh!” she said softly, and pressing her dark-gloved hands to her rose-red cheeks, continued to stare, wide-eyed at the face in the mirror.

“Cicily,” said Jane gently.

The child started, terrifically. Then faced about, her lips no longer smiling, her eyes no longer starry. Slowly, like a curtain, a veil of controlled indifference dropped over her features.

“Mumsy!” she said. “I didn’t know you were there. You frightened me.”

Jane rose slowly from her chair in the corner.

“Cicily,” she said, “I’ve come to talk to you.”

Behind the veil of indifference, Cicily’s young face hardened defensively.

“What about?” she said.

Jane drew a long breath.

“About yourself⁠—and Albert.”

There was a brief pause. Cicily moved to the fireplace and, stripping off her gloves, stood with her back to the room, holding her hands out to the warmth of the crackling flames.

“I wouldn’t, Mumsy,” she said finally.

“I have to,” said Jane. She was conscious that her knees were wobbling disconcertingly. She sat down rather suddenly in the armchair near the fire. There was another pause. Cicily continued to gaze down at the burning logs. She moved her thin, white hands a trifle nervously. The firelight sparkled on the diamond in her engagement ring. Jane looked steadily at those thin white hands.

“Well,” said Cicily, finally, “all right. Shoot. I suppose you have to get it off your chest.” She turned abruptly as she spoke and flung herself moodily down on the hearthrug. She tossed off her little black hat and dark fox fur. The snow on them was melting rapidly in the heat from the fire. There was quite a little puddle on the light grey rug before Jane spoke again.

“Cicily,” she began slowly, “I don’t⁠—I don’t know quite what’s happening, but I know it’s dangerous. I know you’re not behaving⁠—just the way you ought to behave. Don’t think I don’t sympathize with you, because I do⁠—” She stopped, checked by the sight of the little scornful smile that was flickering on Cicily’s lips, then continued lamely, “I do sympathize with you, Cicily, but⁠—”

“But you believe in the Ten Commandments,” said Cicily brightly. “Especially the seventh. Well⁠—so do I, Mumsy, and I haven’t broken it. There. Will that satisfy you?”

“Cicily,” said Jane reproachfully, “I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I,” said Cicily promptly. “I don’t think adultery’s a joke. And I shouldn’t dream of committing it. Some do, of course, but I’ve always thought they were fools. I’m keeping my head, Mumsy, I’m keeping it like anything. But I haven’t made up my mind. Until I do, I don’t see what’s the use of discussion.”

“You don’t see⁠—what’s the use of discussion?” faltered Jane.

“No, I don’t,” said Cicily bluntly. “It’s my affair. Mine and Albert’s. And, in a secondary capacity, of course, Jack’s and Belle’s. It’s a very difficult situation, and it all depends on me. I don’t want to make any mistake!”

“But Cicily!”⁠—Jane’s protest was almost shrill⁠—“you are making a mistake! You’re making one this minute! It’s a terrible mistake for you to sit there and talk as if there were anything but one thing to do!”

“And what’s that?” said Cicily ironically.

“Put Albert Lancaster out of your life immediately,” said Jane firmly. “And forget him as soon as you can.” She regretted her sharp words as soon as they were spoken. They seemed absurdly melodramatic, punctured by Cicily’s light monosyllable.

“Why?”

“Why?” echoed Jane. “Why, because you’re a married woman with three dear children and Albert’s a married man with three children of his own. Because Belle was your best friend and Jack’s always been a good and loyal husband⁠—”

Jane stopped for breath.

“Yes,” said Cicily slowly. “Jack’s always been a good and loyal husband and I’ve always been a good and loyal wife. We’ve been married nearly ten years and I’m horribly bored with him. He’s really bored with me, though, of course, he won’t admit it. It would be perfectly impossible for either of us to recapture the emotion that brought us together. It’s gone forever. The same thing is perfectly true of Belle and Albert. I’ve fallen in love with Albert. He’s fallen in love with me. I can’t see why that situation has anything to do with a dead past. I’m not robbing Jack if I give my love to Albert. Jack hasn’t had my love for years. I’m not robbing Belle if Albert gives his love to me. Belle had her innings ten years ago. I don’t grudge them to her. But it’s my turn now.”

“Cicily!” cried Jane in horror. “You mustn’t talk like that! You mustn’t think like that!”

“Why not?” said Cicily. “What are your brains given you for, except to think with? I believe in being practical. That’s why I haven’t made up my mind. There are a great many practical difficulties to consider. If I should divorce Jack⁠—”

“Divorce Jack?” cried Jane.

“And Belle should divorce Albert,” continued Cicily imperturbably, “there would still be a lot of adjustments to be made. There are the children for one thing⁠—”

“I’m glad you give them a passing thought,” said Jane ironically.

“Don’t be sarcastic, Mumsy,” smiled Cicily cheerfully. “It’s not your line. You know I adore my children. And Albert’s are sweet. The children do present complications. But perhaps we could solve them. They’re all awfully young. They’d soon get used to it. I like the lovely picture of a sweet, united home, just as much as you do, Mumsy. But our homes aren’t sweet and united. There’s no use kidding yourself that they are. But”⁠—Cicily’s young face clouded thoughtfully as she spoke⁠—“you see there’s the money.”

“The what?” cried Jane. This conversation was really taking on the horror of a nightmare.

“The money,” said Cicily. “You see we haven’t got any. Not any to speak of. Aunt Muriel made ducks and drakes of all she had during Uncle Bert’s illness. She gave a lot to Albert during those years abroad. Albert really can’t afford to run two households. Six children and two wives are no joke! He’d want to give Belle a whacking big alimony. I’d want her to have one. On the other hand, I really couldn’t take money from Jack⁠—now, could I?⁠—not even for the support of his children, if I were living with Albert. Perhaps that seems quixotic to you, Mumsy, but⁠—”

“Quixotic!” cried Jane. This must be a nightmare.

“But that’s the way I feel,” ended Cicily tranquilly. Then added abruptly, “Has it ever occurred to you, Mumsy, that Dad only gives me three thousand a year?”

In the midst of the horror a ridiculous impulse to vindicate Stephen rose hotly in Jane’s heart.

“He gave you this house and lot. He gave Jack his job in the bank!”

“They wouldn’t do me much good,” said Cicily calmly, “in the present crisis. I’d ruin Albert. I really would. He wants to get back into the diplomatic service. He’s trying to save a fortune. Of course, there’s Ed Brown⁠—but Albert says he really couldn’t bring himself to come down on him to pay a brand-new stepson’s wife a princely alimony! And I don’t blame him. Ed Brown does seem a trifle remote. Of course, if Dad would settle about three hundred thousand on me⁠—”

Jane rose from her chair.

“Cicily,” she said solemnly, “I wouldn’t have believed⁠—I really⁠—would⁠—not⁠—have⁠—believed⁠—that you could really shock me⁠—”

“You think he wouldn’t?” said Cicily anxiously.

Jane did not stoop to reply. She walked in silence to the door. She could hear Cicily scrambling to her feet behind her.

“It would fix up everything,” said Cicily, “if he would. I know lots of girls would just take that alimony and think nothing of it, but I couldn’t do it. And Albert feels just that way. We wouldn’t want Belle to give up anything. I couldn’t bear it if she had to go back with the children and live with Aunt Isabel⁠—” Strolling down the hall, she slipped her hand confidingly through Jane’s elbow.

“Cicily,” said Jane with dignity, “I’m not going to discuss it. If you don’t see that this talk is shocking⁠—”

“All right, Mumsy,” said Cicily cheerfully. “I told you you hadn’t better. But you would and you did and I’ve been perfectly frank with you.” Jane opened the front door. “See here, darling, you can’t walk home in this weather. I’ll order the car.”

“I don’t want the car,” said Jane pettishly. “I prefer to walk.” Her pettishness was that of an irritated old lady. It reminded her of her own mother. The storm had turned into a blizzard. Small, icy flakes were driving horizontally across the darkness in the shaft of light that shone from the front door. She could not walk, of course. Cicily had already rung for Ella. She gave her order tranquilly. Then turned to smile mischievously at Jane’s sombre face.

“It’s a compliment, Mumsy,” she said, “when your children are perfectly frank with you. But you won’t face facts. Your generation believes in fairies!” The hall was growing cold. Cicily closed the door. “I’m going to talk to Dad, myself, I think,” she said slowly.

Jane did not reply. She still had the sense of nightmare. This⁠—this would devastate Stephen. She would have to tell him. Tell Stephen⁠—who adored Cicily. Mother and daughter stood in silence until the headlights of the motor, wheeling in the darkness, were visible through the glass panel of the door.

“Good night,” said Cicily. Jane, still, did not reply. “Mumsy, don’t be an ass!” cried Cicily brightly. She kissed Jane very warmly. Jane clung to her for a moment in silence. “Button up your coat, dear! Don’t slip on the steps!”

Jane did not look back. She did not dare to, on the icy path. The wind was very strong. But Cicily’s voice floated out to her in the darkness.

“Don’t worry, Mumsy!”

The friendly chauffeur met her halfway to the car. He took her arm to steady her. Jane was suddenly reminded again of her mother. She was an old lady. Or about to become one. Useless to try to understand the younger generation. But she would have to tell Stephen. She would have to tell Stephen that night.

VI

Jane did not tell Stephen that night, however. When she rang her front doorbell, Stephen, himself, opened the door. His face looked strangely shocked and very, very serious.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said simply.

“Stephen!” cried Jane. “Stephen, what’s happened?”

“I’ve had a wire from Alden,” he answered. “Father died of heart failure at his desk in the bank, at half-past three this afternoon.”