Mrs. Radigan is inclined to regard the decease of Mrs. Ten Broeck as an intervention of Providence. It seems that on her demand Radigan—to use her own expression—has become "a patron of the church." He is now a vestryman at St. Edwards, a director of the Hydropathic Hospital, vice-presidentof the Improvident Pawning Society, and a heavy stockholder in the Underground Café Company. Mrs. Radigan is herself a manageress of the "Home for Aged but Respectable Unmarried Women." With Radigan passing the plate every Sunday with Major Plaster, and Mrs. Radigan constantly telephoning to Mrs. Plumstone Smith about the home, it just had to come.
After all, it is the brains that rise like cream in the social crock. There are plenty of people in this town with just as much money as the Radigans, but, struggle though they may, they will stay down. They swim dog-fashion, then drown. Their palaces rise on Riverside Drive, and even Harlem knows their countenances. But the Radigans have brains. They never seem to be swimming for dear life; they float up on their money. Now floating seemed so easy, so blissful. They were able to dispense with one of the Rollers Club fellows for the dinner before the dance and to put in his place young Plumstone Smith, which was a pleasant change for all,so we sat down at the table, besides the new fellow, the Radigans, Miss Constance Mint Wherry, Miss Veal, Miss Hope Van Rundoun, the other Rollers Club fellow and myself. And such a dinner! The Radigans never do things half-way. For each of the young women there was an enormous bunch of American Beauties, and as the men could not take flowers, Radigan loaded our cases with cigars that the gods might smoke. They did not churn us all up in a Fifth Avenue stage, as is the custom in some circles, but rolled us downtown, swiftly, gently, in their new electric carryall.
Mrs. Radigan had come to her own! You should have seen her as she stood in that august row of patronesses, right between Mrs. Plumstone Smith and Mrs. Stuyvesant Mint. They simply looked like the setting. She seemed to have been born and raised right in that spot, so natural did she appear. Mrs. Plumstone Smith let me tip up one of her gloved hands, and then recognized the existence of her son. Mrs. Radigan made a one-quarter bow at us and smiled vacantly, then turned and whispered to Mrs. Mint. But she thawed out later. I found her sitting behind the favor-counter, a part in a scene that called to my mind a street-bazaar in Cairo, though I did not suggest it to her as I led her forth into the mazes of the dance.
Mrs. Radigan hops. Mrs. Radigan loves dancing. Mrs. Radigan tells you to stop when you are tired—she can keep on forever. What an awful combination! The first time we hopped by that row of immaculately clad statuary known as the "stags" I recognized every face distinctly, and even saw the Rollers Club fellow wink at me. The second time around, young Plumstone Smith winked. At the third circuit two or three of the stags had their heads together and seemed to be looking our way and commenting. On the fourth, Tumbleton Wherry, who was leading the cotillon, stopped running around clapping his hands as if he were shooing chickens, and stood in the centre of the room just gazing our way. The last time I saw the stags theyseemed to my distorted vision just a long band of black and white. I am positive that Mrs. Radigan, in the early ages of her existence—ages now remote—danced to the music of a hurdy-gurdy.
When the dizziness had gone, I was called to the business of the hour by Tumbleton Wherry, who dropped in my lap a corn-cob pipe tied with pink ribbon and hurried on. So I gathered my feet together, and by sliding madly across the room, managed to place it in the hands of Miss Veal before the Rollers Club fellow could claim her by the presentation of a gilt paper pin-wheel. Oh, but that girl can glide! Perhaps it was the sudden contrast with the hopping performance of Mrs. Radigan that made my new partner seem immaterial. I seemed to be clasping merely a bust, she moved so easily, and I found myself doubting if she had any feet at all, even going to the extent of kicking, gently, to satisfy myself. There was nothing there, she glided so airily. It is the Chicago way. I cannot say that I like it. It is uncanny.Still, it is, perhaps, preferable to the Boston style, which requires that the young woman stand erect like a soldier and move around as though she had castors on the soles of her shoes. But Miss Veal compensated for her over-gracefulness by not talking, which is a blessing, for nothing is so trying as to have to make remarks about this dance being better than some others when a mesh of pink trimmings is swishing around your feet.
Then she smiled! That smile went to many hearts, and when it was seen that I knew her I was besieged with demands to be presented. Consequently she had what society calls a good time, and when along toward morning the band struck up "Home, Sweet Home," she was hung over with favors till she looked like a Christmas-tree, and, besides I had to carry to the automobile for her a whole grab-bag full of corn-cob pipes and pin-wheels.
I walked home with the other Rollers Club fellow. He was very silent. It seems she danced just once around the room with himand then sailed off and sat in a quiet corner for a whole half-hour with young Plumstone Smith. The future is all clear now. From the Rollers Club fellow to Plumstone Smith, then a Williegilt, who will give place to a title and a real wedding with a riot.
CHAPTER VII
Mrs. Radigan Captures Miss Bumpschus
If Solomon had been living in these days he would have classed the doings of society folk with the ship on the sea, the snake on a rock, and the way of a man with a maid, the things that pass understanding. Why, for instance, should people who have a comfortable home of their own and money to buy their seats in a theatre, or, indeed, the theatre itself, like the Williegilts, wittingly accept an invitation from the Radigans for dinner and the play, and supper at Flurry's afterward? It meant six hours with that remarkable family, or one-quarter of a day, and when we consider that even the Williegilts' days are numbered, we begin to wonder if it can be true that of all the animals, man is the most intelligent. Stranger still, now that the Williegilts have placed on the broad brow of Mrs. Radigan the laurel wreath of social victory, there are in the town a thousand simple, unambitious souls who would give a year of their lives for six hours with a woman so conspicuous as my friend. The Radigans are in. The Radigans are smart. And by smartness we mean that highly intellectual state which requires yachts, horses, automobiles, dancing, and bridge to keep the mind occupied.
I was walking up the avenue the other afternoon when a brougham swerved into the curb, and a familiar voice hailed me and bade me get in, as she wanted to see me. There is no mistaking a Radigan carriage. They are always perfectly turned out, though I have suspected that the mistress would have three men on the box were there room. She makes up for this misfortune, however, by adopting the London wrinkle of having her footman sit with hands clasped and uplifted in an attitude of prayer; and as I had recognized one of my bandy-legged cynics of theWestbury days at his devotions as the equipage approached, I was prepared to be gathered in. Mrs. Radigan simply had to have me to dinner. Young Plumstone Smith had accepted and then backed out, pleading grippe, though she had seen him going to the Grand Central in a hansom. She must have me to fill in, and though I am accustomed to filling in, I doubt that even the astonishing fact that the Williegilts were coming would have enticed me, but then Miss Ethel Bumpschus was to be there, and I surrendered. I had seen the young woman's picture covering the half-page over the society notes in the Sunday paper, showing her with lustrous eyes and a furry thing around her neck, an Oriental beauty reduced to New York; and on the promise that I should take her in, I accepted. When I heard what was on the programme, dinner, the play, and supper, I asked Mrs. Radigan if we should bring trunks, and she said of course not.
But there were times that evening when it seemed to me that we were of one family, theRadigans, the Williegilts, all of us; that we had lived together all our lives and were to spend eternity in company. It began at seven o'clock, very informally, and when I entered the drawing-room the very last, prepared to besiege Miss Bumpschus, I had suddenly impressed on me a profound respect for the art of photography. She seemed to have aged since Sunday, and though she slipped her arm through mine and worked her way with me through a maze of chairs and tables to the dining-room, I felt that, after all, Mrs. Radigan had taken me in.
Miss Bumpschus is very smart. Besides, she is intellectual. The Bumpschuses have been prominent in New York society for fifty years; one of her cousins married the Duke of Nothingham, and she is herself rated at some ten millions. So, really, Mrs. Radigan was doing me a favor and giving me what she called an opportunity. Then if I wanted to rest my eyes I could gaze on the lovely Miss Veal across the table, smiling at Willie Lite, and saying, "Indeed." Miss Bumpschus, I found, was religious. To her the world was peopled with only two sets of people worth knowing—the very rich and the very poor. She would cut one of the Rollers Club fellows dead in the street, but she would, with her own hands, bake a cake for one of those dear old friends of hers at the Home for Aged Elevated Ticket-choppers. If she had not been born just what she was, the heiress to the great Bumpschus fortune, she would far rather have been a nurse than a person merely well-to-do. But she was an accomplished talker, and though I cannot remember a thing she said, she left none of those dreadful pauses. For this I was grateful, anyway, as I could not break in on Mrs. Williegilt's engrossing discussion of glanders and carbureters with Radigan, nor on Mrs. Radigan's sermon on carbureters and glanders to Bobbie Williegilt; nor could I turn from Willie Lite the smile of Miss Veal. Anyway, whatever I said and whatever she said, Mrs. Radigan whispered in my ear as we were going down the steps to the wagonthat I had won Miss Bumpschus's heart, and that if I would complete the conquest I must send my old dress-clothes and top hats to the aged ticket-choppers.
Mrs. Radigan has not yet learned that when you give theatre-parties in New York you must spend a week visiting the plays quietly if you are going to have young girls in the party. Miss Bumpschus is not young, but she is still classed as a girl, and, moreover, as I have said, she is puritanical. Of Miss Veal there was no real cause for fear. She smokes. But Mrs. Radigan informed us that she had chosen this particular play because she knew by the name that it was something Miss Bumpschus and her little sister could see. Poor Mrs. Radigan! Poor Miss Bumpschus! Really it was all harmless enough, but the underlying theme was not a burned will nor a stolen necklace. The play was more for bald heads and switches, like most of our up-to-date dramatic exhibitions, so Miss Bumpschus quickly lapsed into unconsciousness behind her programme, andMiss Veal looked as though it was all a mystery to her.
"It's just my luck," Mrs. Radigan groaned to me. "Now had she been Constance Wherry I should not have cared, but Ethel Bumpschus will not speak to me again. A woman is foolish nowadays who takes a party to see anything but Shakespeare, Ibsen, or the wax-works."
Rare sense is Mrs. Radigan beginning to show! Gleams of high intelligence break through occasionally. But I fear she exaggerated the effect on her younger guests. We did have to arouse Miss Bumpschus from behind her programme when the curtain went down, and when Willie Lite asked her if she did not think it was awfully clever, she turned to me and asked me not to forget the old clothes for the ticket-choppers. But she braced up at supper, and under the protection of Radigan, he being a married man, and the enlivening influences of a few glasses of champagne, she lost all her color again and became very chipper. I, for the moment, took on thecharacter of a horse-doctor, and entertained Mrs. Williegilt with my opinions of glanders, while Williegilt basked in the light of Miss Veal's smiles, and Willie Lite laid the wires to sell a heavy line of champagne to our hostess. Altogether the evening was a success, particularly as I read in my paper the next morning that "Mr. and Mrs. J. John Radigan entertained Mr. and Mrs. Bobbie Q. Williegilt and several other smart people at dinner, the play, and supper last evening."
CHAPTER VIII
The Small Dance at Flurry's
By one bold leap Mrs. Radigan has landed herself among the smartest of the smart and has fixed herself there so firmly that heaven and earth cannot move her as long as she holds on to her money. She staked all and won. If she failed to become a smart woman, there was that dreadful alternative of being a club woman, but she risked it. She is safe now. Her husband can abscond or can sue for divorce, she can sue for divorce or can become totally demented, they can abandon each other and their son can abandon them, but as long as the great Radigan fortune hangs together they will be smart. And after all that adjective is not misused, for it is money that makes people interesting in this world. We will listen with bated breath to the twaddle of a multi-millionaire, while we wouldyawn in the face of a college professor. Everybody says the Radigans are interesting. Those who knew them in their poorer days must have thought them dull.
I said that Mrs. Radigan risked all. That is not exaggeration. When I heard how she had rented Flurry's entire establishment for an evening, and calmly sent out invitations to a dance, I shuddered.
"Why, that great ballroom will look like Asbury Park in December," said I, "unless you have made some foolish blunder like asking your old friends."
"Never," she answered firmly. "I have made a list of just 600 names. My annual ball is to be a great gathering of all the clans, you see. Then I want to give it a cosmopolitan tinge, so I have asked representatives of each of the trades: one actress, one author, one artist, one clergyman, and a college professor. You see it will look as though I were able to ask just whom I chose, in spite of their social position."
With that she handed me a press copy ofher list, and as my eye ran from name to name, I groaned. There was hardly a perfumery, a brokerage house, a breakfast-food, a real-estate firm, a bank, or a business combination of any kind in the city that was not represented.
"Why, these are the smartest people in town!" I cried. "And I am sure you don't know one-tenth of the lot, and that only half that number know you. How many do you think will come?"
"I cannot guess," she said calmly. "The cards went out only yesterday. It is a gamble, of course. If nobody comes, we shall move to Riverside Drive. If everybody comes, we go on with our new house on the avenue."
It was a pity, indeed, that that new house could not be finished in time. If money could have completed it, there would have been no question, but Coppe & Coppe, the architects, said they had to have at least three months to build such a palace. The designs alone took them ten days, so there was nothing todo but to have the affair at Flurry's. It is difficult at a public place like that to take from a private affair the air of one of these subscription things, for there is no change of scene, no change of actors, and were you not versed in socialology you could not tell Mrs. Plumstone's dance from one of those Wednesdays or Thursdays. So Mrs. Radigan was handicapped from the start; but she made a masterly stroke by giving the champagne contract to Willie Lite, making it his interest to gather in as many of his friends as possible. It was there that she won the battle, I suspect, and her calm demeanor in those awful minutes preceding the arrival of the first guests came, I believe, from her absolute faith in him. Radigan was terribly nervous. He said it would break his heart if all his polo in the fall, all his countless knocks and bruises and tumbles were to go for nothing, and the first of their annual balls be the last.
They had a dinner at home to a few of their "close friends," which included about one dozen, and nearly everybody they knew.The Williegilts and Miss Bumpschus had declined, which looked ominous, and the outlook was still darker when we arrived on the field of battle on the minute of ten, and for an hour had the great rooms to ourselves. There is nothing more depressing than the ballroom where, to the music of a big orchestra, a half-dozen men and women are cavorting around in lonely state. Dancing made easy is dancing made uninteresting, for take away the jam of whirling figures, the sweep of bedraggled trains beneath the feet, the stab of elbows, and the wild plunges of the nimbler footed, and you take away the dangers that make the sport.
So that was a deadly hour. But through it all, in the hush before the battle, Mrs. Radigan stood undaunted in the big reception-room, firm and masterful, while Radigan wandered aimlessly about adjusting his cuffs. Then the noble lord who stands in the entrance and announces the events, fired the first big gun. There was a swish of skirts and the name of Miss Bumpschus, $10,000,000plus, resounding almost to the ballroom, indicated to the watchers there that the conflict was on and that victory was in the air. Miss Bumpschus was an hour late, apologized for being early, and came on to the dance with the much flustered Radigan. A pause. A hush. The noble lord was in action again, and Mr. Pomade, $1,000,000 down and five more sure to come, made his appearance. Mrs. Radigan was beaming and she had a right. At the heels of the exquisite Pomade came Count Popperwhistle, $1,500,000 minus and open to propositions. After him, a mob. The opera was over. From the street below sounded the shouts of a hundred coachmen, and elevator after elevator dumped into the hall all the flowers that bloom to-day in society. There were no last roses, no century-plants; I don't think the Van Rundouns were even asked, and I know the Rollers Club fellows were left out. Even the Monday Cotillons were almost forgotten, except for a few like the Mints and the Plumstone Smiths, who are in one set on account of their poverty, but have a hold on the other because of their family. Willie Lite had made good. While a great number had sent regrets, they all came, anyway, and where had been a weary waste of polished floor, there now was a whirling struggle for a foothold and breathing-space. All the Bumpschuses, the Wherry-Mints, the Mint-Wherrys, the Jack Twitters, the Willies and Bobbies, the Tommies and Harrys were there. Willie Lite dancing with Miss Veal, simple white and pearls, led at one end, while Plumstone Smith dancing with Miss Marie Antoinette Williegilt, led at the other. The favors were the finest that New York has ever seen, and our smart matrons will have to make inroads into their bank-accounts to beat them. The silver-bound whiskey-flasks for the men, I know, cost $25 apiece, and the carved ivory cigarette-cases for the girls were still more expensive. Then there were riding-crops and parasols and useful things like that, which really made dancing profitable.
The supper was as excellent as it wasunpronounceable and indigestible, and Willie Lite must have made a good thing in commissions. But he deserved it. More, too, I thought, when I clipped this morning, from the journal that gives all the news that is worth printing, a list of those who were at Mrs. Radigan's first annual ball last night and are pledged to those to come. Here are a few of the names:
Mrs. E. Williegilt,The Misses Williegilt,Mrs. Robert Q. Williegilt,Miss E. Bumpschus,Mrs. Plumstone,Miss Constance Wherry,Miss Wherry-Mint,The Misses Speechless,Mrs. John Twitter,Miss Clarissa Mudison,Miss Tumbleton,Mrs. Timpleton Duff,Mrs. Hegerton Humming,Mrs. Thomas Tattler,Mr. E. Williegilt,Mr. Williegilt Bumpschus,Mr. J. Madison Mudison,Mr. Plumstone Smith,Mr. Cecil Hash,Mr. Winthrop Jumpkin, 7th,Mr. Humming,Mr. J. Twitter,Mr. Duff,Mr. Tattler.
CHAPTER IX
Our Talk Over Tea
Mrs. Radigan untwisted her furs and laid her muff and gloves on the chair at her side, and proceeded to make tea.
"Well," she said, when the water was boiling industriously and the alcohol lamp had ceased its explosions, "I have just leased a cottage for the coming season at Newport. We are going quietly, you know, and it's just a tiny little box on Bellevue Avenue and only costs us $12,000 a year."
"Indeed?" said I. "How sensible!"
"I think it is sensible," said Mrs. Radigan. "Now, John in his usual way wanted to take the Mints' villa at $40,000 for the season, but I said no—people would say we werenouveaux riches, and I prefer to live quietly and modestly. It is so much better taste. Somany people get in nowadays on their mere money."
Mrs. Radigan heaved a sigh. She made me some brackish-looking tea, more for herself, and over her cup she eyed me archly. Just a week before she had sat there with me over her afternoon tea wondering whether Society would come to her ball, or she would be doomed to move in the Waldorf-Astoria set for the rest of her existence. Now she was so firmly established that she could rail, because in so doing she was acting the dual rôle of the attacker and the attacked. I showed no surprise. She had long since ceased to astonish me.
"So many common people go to Newport thinking they can buy their way in," Mrs. Radigan went on. "They rent great houses and they give balls, they entertain a German baron or a Hindoo prince, and nobody pays any attention to them. They disappear next year. Sometimes they are barred because there is a scandal in the family, like a divorce."
I raised my eyebrows. Mrs. Radigan must have noted it, but I think she could not have understood, for she went right on.
"It is always better form not to seem ostentatious. That's what Mr. Lite told me, but I had a hard time driving it into John's head. John likes show. But I just put my foot down and said that now we were in, we must have a conservative spell, a quiet period, so people would get used to us. I have made up my mind to have one or two little things that will be very,veryexclusive. For instance, I have decided on a donkey-dinner, for one."
"Who is to be asked?" said I.
"Only the smartest people," she answered, stirring her tea meditatively. "But it's a splendid idea. I am so afraid it will get in the papers and make a dreadful stir all over the country. I intend to write to the editors particularly and ask them not to print it. The outsiders are always so horrid, anyway. They can do all kinds of foolish things and nobody ever says a word, but the minutewehave something a little original, we never hear the end of it. Why, I remember years ago, when we were Baptists, going to church sociables, and nothing could be more absurd than an apron-and-necktie party, but nothing was ever heard of them outside of the church itself. If we were Presbyterians, and lived on Lenox Avenue, no one would print anything about a beach-party we gave in our house on New Year's eve, or something foolish like that. But now, simply because we are Episcopalians and have a donkey-dinner in Newport, I know I shall be mentioned in sermons and prayers all over the country. It is dreadful!"
"But, Mrs. Radigan," said I, "if you will leave the wings and get out in the middle of the stage and stand in the lime-light, you must expect to have some hissing from the audience."
"But we never get any applause," said she, with a touch of resentment in her voice.
"Because," said I, "all those in the body of the house want to be on the stage themselves—a strange condition, but one that really exists. And as they are not in the company, they find comfort in picking flaws in the acting and the actors. Now, for instance, a donkey-party for the benefit of your old Baptist church would not excite any comment at all."
"But at Newport it will make a sensation," she cried, clasping her hands and smiling. "Oh, it will be perfectly dreadful!"
I had to smile too. Mrs. Radigan is a wonderfully clever woman in a social way. She seems instinctively to do the most startling thing at the right time, and to have it all published in just the right place. I expect that within a year she will be known as New York's grandest dame, and that to be admitted to her house will be to be marked socially sterling. But Society is not an aristocracy. It is the purest democracy. The Radigans, for example, could never in the world have got in the smart set at Harvard or Princeton. They do not know enough. But here is Mrs. Radigan, whose father-in-law laid the foundation of a great fortune in pool-rooms, whose father lived a useful life between his home and his distillery; here is Mrs. Radigan, an immigrant from Kansas City, actually planning donkey-dinners. To what heights may she not soar?
I sat sipping tea and silently admiring this remarkable woman. But she never lets you rest with one surprise.
"Have you heard about Pearl?" she asked suddenly.
"Surely, Miss Veal is not ill?" I exclaimed, in some alarm.
"Oh, no—engaged," Mrs. Radigan replied laughing. "Engaged to Plumstone Smith."
I had been expecting this for some days, and believed myself prepared for it, but the announcement was none the less disagreeable. Of course I have never had anything more than admiration for the girl. What man could help that! Perhaps once or twice, in a vague way, there have come to me thoughts more ambitious, but they seemed too absurd.Pearl Veal is rich and beautiful, a rare combination, and it was not to be expected that she would waste herself, all her charm and wealth, on a struggling nobody, a man who could boast nothing. So such silly dreams were laughed at in my sober moments. But when the announcement came, when I realized that, vague and silly though they were, they must be put away forever, I was a bit hard hit—harder hit than I expected.
"Well, it is fine!" I cried, putting the best face possible on the matter. "Of course I knew it all along. But when are they to be married?"
"Never," said Mrs. Radigan, sipping tea. "You see, it's just for a while. It was announced, by mistake, in the papers this morning, but we have denied it. It will make a great deal of talk, you know, and the formal announcement will be made next week."
"I see," said I. "But you say they are not to be married?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Radigan. "You see, Pearl came to me and asked my consent,and I said they could be engaged for a while; he is such a well-known cotillon-leader."
"But doesn't she love him?"
"Possibly, but that makes no difference. She doesn't know what love is, the dear thing, and is flattered because he is so dreadfully devoted to her. I encouraged it, because I don't think it does any harm for a girl to be engaged to one or two men before she really settles down. It improves her greatly. It gives her poise, manner, independence. Pearl is such a simple thing. Why, she thought at first that he wanted her money, but he assured her that it would never have made any difference at all if papa had never left her all those millions. He wanted her for herself alone. It's sweet of him, isn't it? Well, I told her that as long as they were so devoted to each other they might be engaged for a while—until May, anyway. We are going to London then for the season and will bring back a duke."
"For the donkey-dinner?" said I.
"Yes," said Mrs. Radigan. "Won't you have another cup of tea?"
CHAPTER X
Miss Veal's Engagement is Announced
Mrs. Radigan has now announced the engagement of her sister to Plumstone Smith, Jr. She let it leak out a few weeks ago, and then kept the matter well before the public by daily denials. But it was finally announced the other day, and on Sunday pictures of the happy pair, with cupids hovering around them, and views of the new Radigan mansion, where, it was said, they were to be married in the fall, filled a page in several papers. Miss Veal's fortune was placed by the social historians at $20,000,000, though I know positively it is only a fifth of that sum. However, the Plumstone Smiths are secretly quite satisfied, for I notice that theyare having their old-fashioned brown-stone-front house redecorated, and Junior seems to have purchased himself an entire new wardrobe. Deluded youth! He does not know Mrs. Radigan. He thinks that he has fixed himself for life, when, really, he is simply the isle of safety on which my good friends will rest secure for a few months in the smart whirl. After him, a London season and a duke. And he needs the money so! Besides, Miss Veal is really a great catch. Miss Bumpschus, of course, is a greater prize financially, but, on her mother's side, her family is very old. She traces her line back to the eighteenth century without a break, so she might safely be called plain.
Miss Veal, it always seemed to me, would make an ideal wife. She is rich and beautiful, she can read and write, she is ineligible to be a Daughter of anything, and I have never heard her give forth an idea of any kind; she is stunning in an opera-box, and even her motoring garb cannot smother her loveliness. But, of course, Mrs. PlumstoneSmith had to intimate to a few close friends that her son was making amésalliancein wedding this upstart from Kansas City. The Plumstone Smiths are as old as the Bumpschuses, but they have always been cultivated, and so are poor. But Plumstone Junior is a rising cotillon leader, and has a brilliant career before him in any event. His mother felt that more wealth and family, and less looks would be desirable. Echoes of this came to Mrs. Radigan's ears, and with that rare strategy of hers she announced that she had bitterly opposed the match from the start, as she felt that Plumstone had nothing to recommend him but his pedigree. Family would not make the automobile go. This country was bursting with old families. Philadelphia alone could supply the rightful heir to every title in Europe. If Plumstone had some brains she would hail him as a brother, but as he was only a glorified dancing-master, she would receive him on sufferance.
Forthwith came Mrs. Plumstone Smith, ina Williegilt carriage, to call on Mrs. Radigan and kiss her and call her "Sally." After her came the whole family, some vastly rich, some vastly poor, to rave over Mrs. Radigan and her beautiful sister. And Mrs. Radigan took them all in.
Last night my friend gave a dinner in honor of her sister, and followed it with a marvellous musicale. The parade to the dining-room was led by Radigan with Mrs. Plumstone Smith on his wrong arm, while Mrs. Radigan, with the happy young man's father, acted as rear-guard, thus signifying the union of two great families. J. Madison Mudison, the smartest and clubiest member of the opposing faction, took in Miss Veal, while, as an artfully arranged contrast, Miss Bumpschus fell to Plumstone Smith, who was allowed, however, to sit next his fiancée. I am learning. By shuffling up the cards in the dressing-room I secured for myself the beautiful Marian Speechless, throwing Bertie Bumpschus between Constance Wherry and the Countess Poglioso Spinnigini, who cannotspeak English. To avoid confusion, Bertie had to take my place at the table, for I was in his chair first, delightfully fixed with Mrs. Bobbie Q. Williegilt on my left. He glared at me in silence through the four courses, and then the champagne came to his aid and he began to engage the Countess in a voluble conversation.
Miss Speechless was a delightful change from Miss Wherry, with her ideas, and Miss Bumpschus, with her charities. She rattled on and on at me without any regard for what I was saying to her, which always makes conversation easy. I have not the remotest idea what she said. She laughed a good deal, and threw in lots of color occasionally for no reason at all, and as she is very pretty, I set her down as charming. She is a human phonograph and seems to talk out what at some other time another has talked into her. But she must change the records often, else she would never be such a great belle. When she turned to Count Poglioso Spinnigini, I found on my other hand Mrs. Williegilt, as interested as ever in carbureters, bridge, and glanders.
The dinner was a huge success. The twenty-four at the table, with the possible exception of Bertie Bumpschus, were in fine fettle, and as I glanced at the illustrious company, picking lackadaisically at course after course of the Radigan bounty, I felt that my friend had no need to give a donkey-dinner at Newport to make herself secure. Madison Mudison toasted Miss Veal in a few charming words. He envied his young cousin. Too late in life he was coming to the realization that love in a cottage was better than bachelorhood in a dozen clubs. Were he young again, he would search the world to find another like Pearl Veal, were that possible. Radigan expressed his delight in having Plumstone Smith as a brother-in-law. If anyone had asked him a month ago what man in all the world he would choose for his dear little sister he would have said "Plumstone Smith." This caused Plumstone to declare that he considered himself a devilish luckyfellow; Miss Veal was a devilish lucky girl; they were all devilish lucky. Miss Veal smiled radiantly. I caught Mrs. Radigan's eye and thought of the duke to come.
The musicale that followed was a fitting finish. The hosts arrived about ten o'clock, and half an hour later began to enjoy $25,000 worth of music. The house was comfortably filled with the smartest of the smart. The Skimphony Orchestra silenced them, and then Furioso's splendid voice rang out from the smoking-room. After he had sung several thousand dollars' worth, Herr String, the eminent 'cellist, supported by the full Skimphony, played beautifully. Roardika, Hemstop, and several other high-priced artists followed him. Furioso closed the programme with"Ah mio, mi mio."After Furioso, supper. And such a supper! The Radigans' chef is an artist.
When the duke comes for Miss Veal and the new house is done, they will show the town how to do things.
CHAPTER XI
An Awfully Good Time
Since her engagement to Plumstone Smith, Jr., was announced, Miss Pearl Veal is having what in Society is called an awfully good time. This means that her day ends in the early morning and she awakens about noon; stands around other people's drawing-rooms at teas for some hours; hurries home to change her costume for dinner; sits smiling through a half-dozen courses; is whirled away for a few acts of opera; hustled off to dance till close to dawn. Society has taken her up. People are doing things for her. Consequently, I am beginning to fear that she will lose the color she brought from Kansas City; that the lines of her face, once so round and soft, will straighten and harden; that she will give up smiling and take to talking, orbecome phonographic, like Miss Marion Speechless.
Mrs. Radigan, of course, is delighted. Mrs. Radigan has cause to be pleased. She has become a personage. She is being gossiped about in the most outlandish fashion, much to her own amusement and the indignation of J. John, who always was slow-witted and not ready to appraise things at their real value. For instance, Radigan was in a towering rage when a weekly journal that chronicles the doings of the smart set hinted broadly that Mrs. Radigan was engaged to marry J. Madison Mudison as soon as she had cleared away the present matrimonial barriers by visiting South Dakota. Moreover, it was said that the husband had already found consolation and was acquiescing in the arrangement, as it was long known that he had been making eyes at Miss Ethel Bumpschus. The purest fiction! Radigan and his wife are the most devoted pair imaginable, and even if it were the smart thing to do, I cannot conceive their separating, particularly if Radigan's winnings in such an arrangement were to be Miss Bumpschus. The story was, of course, promptly denied and put to sleep, but it serves to show the high place my friends at present fill in the public eye. Radigan was brought to this view and cooled down, but it required some diplomacy to soothe the ruffled feelings of Miss Bumpschus. A check for $5,000 for her pet charity, the Home for Aged Elevated Ticket-choppers, acted as a balm, and to show that she bore no ill-will against her fellow-sufferers she gave a dinner-dance in honor of Miss Veal.
And this was but one of about fifteen "things" given for the girl in the past week. Mrs. Plumstone Smith, Miss Bobbie Williegilt, and Mrs. Lenox Mint all gave her luncheons; Miss Wherry and J. Madison Mudison gave her theatre-parties; the Dewberry Lambs a dance. Besides, she has been kept jumping from house to house every afternoon to meet people who have been asked to meet her. Then she has been askedto act as bridesmaid at eleven weddings in the near future, and it will take no small part of her income for the year, large though it is, to buy gowns and hats for these joyous affairs, which will vary in shade from pink to saffron. Poor Miss Veal! My heart goes out to her.
I was favored with an invitation to the dinner preceding the Bumpschus dance, and had the honor of sitting between Miss Ethel and the Countess Poglioso Spinnigini, an arrangement which I suspected was effected by Bertie Bumpschus in revenge for my taking his place at the Radigan table last week. I talked to the Countess in English, French, German, and Italian till my head ached, then turned her over to the guileless J. Madison Mudison at her other side. But Mudison is an old campaigner. He did not try to entertain the fair Italian at all, but let her talk to him, occasionally breaking into her flow of jargon with the French expressions he had picked up at the bridge-table. How I admired him! He is a man of tact.
Meantime I was in the hands of Miss Bumpschus discussing the needs of the aged ticket-choppers, and covertly watching Miss Veal down the table having an awfully good time. She was seated between old Mr. Bumpschus and Dewberry Lamb, talking out to them a few thoughts that I had talked into her the day before concerning the great novel of the week. Mr. Bumpschus showed his deep interest by eying her over the top of his upraised glass and exclaiming, "Ah! Indeed!" at proper intervals, and when she had exhausted him she turned to Dewberry Lamb and said, "I was just telling Mr. Bumpschus," etc. "How intensely interesting!" exclaimed Mr. Lamb. "Indeed!"
Blessed is the tobacco habit at times like this! When the women had gone, I had an opportunity to soothe my nerves with a strong cigar and relieve the pressure of thought upon my brain by discussing stocks and real-estate with Madison Mudison. He also talked entertainingly about the invasion of upper Fifth Avenue by tradesmen. It was with regret thatI left him to get down to the business of dancing.
Dancing is the strangest of diversions. It is a curious relic of barbarity. To glide over a glassy floor, a beautiful girl on your arm, to the strains of some dreamy waltz, sweeping around and around, free and fearless, that is one thing, but not the real. To go bumping and thumping through a maze of a hundred hopping and skipping and kicking men and women, to have your feet tramped on, to tangle them up in meshy trains, to have elbows poked into your eye, to strain your sight hunting for vacant places—is that pleasure? I waited in line a half-hour for the opportunity to take Miss Veal twice around the room. My collar was gone, my shirt front caved in, but waiting had given me rest. When she came staggering up she was on the point of collapse, her hair was awry, she was panting for air, and seemed to be wobbling on her legs, but when I handed her a paper parasol she said "Whew!" long drawn, and away we went. Miss Bumpschusstepped on my heel, Bobbie Williegilt's toe caught in the lace trimming of Miss Veal's gown and we had to stop in the most dangerous spot while I gathered up the trailing yards of it, at the peril of being bowled over at any minute. Miss Speechless rammed a paper parasol into my ear, and a near-sighted stag rushing onto the floor for the hand of Miss Mint jumped heavily on my partner's foot, crushing her diamond buckle. But we got twice around. She said it was lovely.
"I am almost dead," she gasped. "I've been having such an awfully good time."
With that she passed into the hands of the next man in that devoted row awaiting her, and was whirled from sight in the dancing maelstrom.
Yet man prides himself on being a reasoning creature.
CHAPTER XII
We Inspect the New House
I went through the new Radigan house on Fifth Avenue the other day, and I must say that not in years have I had so delightful an adventure as that trip through my friends' fairy-palace. The phrase fairy-palace is used not to imply beauty, but the marvel of its building, for it might be said to have arisen in a night. But Coppe & Coppe are masterful architects. They hold the time record for a twenty-seven-story office building, and with artists like these, Radigan's money, and a cousin who is a walking delegate, wonders can be accomplished. The mansion to-day is practically finished, except for the lightning-rods on the tower, which rises from the western front, an exact copy of those truncated ones of Notre Dame.
We strolled up in the afternoon, the Radigans, Miss Veal, and myself, and on the way picked up J. Madison Mudison, who was walking off a little stag dinner of the night before, and seemed rather depressed. As we passed Seventieth Street we got the first view of the new house and crossed the street to get the best effects. Mrs. Radigan, with much pride, pointed out the exterior beauties of the structure. With the gardens, it occupies an entire block, save for a row of apartment houses on the Madison Avenue end, and I must confess that the bare backs of these plebeian structures, with their laundry work floating in the breeze, do not make an agreeable setting; but Mrs. Radigan said that that objection would soon be done away with, as the upward trend of trade would eventually replace the flats with fine office buildings. So we tried to rub them from our eyes and see only the splendid edifice that was glistening in the afternoon sun.
Mrs. Radigan was beaming. As mistress of such a home she had a good right.
"Mr. Coppe assures me that it is perfect,"she said, when we had stood for some minutes in mute admiration. "He declares that it is his firm's she-dove."
"Mr. Coppe tells me," she went on, "that the front is just like Ver-sales, the palace of the Lewises, Lewis cattorze, Lewis cans, and Lewis seeze. The tower is like that of Notre Dayme exactly, only red to match the front." Mrs. Radigan had assumed something of the air of a sight-seeing automobile lecturer, and fearing that her strident tones would collect a crowd I began to move ahead with Miss Veal. Then I caught a few words more and loath to lose so lucid a treatise on architecture, paused to catch this: "Mr. Coppe says a building must always express something. You observe how he has carried out the idea. Look along the north end of the second story and you will see a window with six classic columns outside. That is John's study."
Meaning, of course, I pondered, that the Greeks always had columns outside their study windows. The tower, then, was meant to indicate that John was a vestryman in St.Edward's, and the French front below that his wife was a leader of the fashion. I was curious to know what the back of the house expressed and was graciously informed that Mr. Coppe said that it was not a reproduction, but had been inspired by the Villa Medici in Rome.
So we went on. A loud banging at a brass knocker, taken from one of Washington's head-quarters, set electric bells going inside and brought a workman, who summoned Mr. Coppe, he having been prepared for our coming. Coppe is a charming fellow. He has danced his way to the very front of his profession, and as a cotillon-leader and artist has no rival in the city. Of late he has been giving his entire time to the Radigans, and his commissions on the interior decorations alone would allow him to retire for life. I could see that at a glance. In every room there was a goodly company of workmen—working, for the walking delegate was there looking after the interests of his relatives.
The entrance-floor did not interest memuch. A few small reception and dressing rooms were surrounded by servants' quarters and kitchens, and Mrs. Radigan refused to look at the kitchen. Cooking odors, she said, always nauseated her, a condition for which she had to thank her surfeited maternal ancestors, I suspect. So we went up the wide staircase, part of which was brought from an old French château. At the first landing Mr. Coppe drew our attention to a niche in the wall.
"Here," he said, "we shall hang the famous Velasquez which I recently discovered on the East Side and purchased for Mr. Radigan for $40,000—a bargain."
This was the first Radigan had heard of his prize, and it pleased him greatly.
"Is it an ancient or a modern?" he inquired gravely.
Hearing its age and that it was so old that the central figure hardly showed at all, he expressed his delight. Radigan has been developing wonderfully of late as a patron of the arts.
At the second landing we came to the well-known portrait of J. John Radigan, Esq., in hunting costume, and at the head of the stairs, in the foyer, the first thing to catch the eye was the picture of Mrs. Radigan, which made such a furore at the recent Academy. It is by the great Fatuous, who did the Kaiser, the Duke of Lummix, and Lady Angelica Mumm, and so has had a great vogue here this winter. In securing him to paint her into society last fall, Mrs. Radigan executed a master-stroke. She sat day and night that it might be done in time for the exhibition, but nothing ever daunts her. She declared that poor Radigan was risking life and limb playing polo and hunting foxes for her sake, and she just had to do something. Between sitting and polo I should say that the latter was the easier, but surely she was repaid for her suffering.
Fatuous is an artist, indeed! The woman of his canvas is lovely. She is about six inches taller than Mrs. Radigan, and perhaps fifty pounds lighter in weight. Leaning backgracefully in her chair, her eyes are turned down, as she gazes tenderly and pensively at the child at her side. Spirituelle she looks, high-born and high-strung as becomes the daughter of a hundred Americans and the mistress of the largest house that fronts the park.
"It's charming," said Mr. Mudison. "But who is the boy?"
"Jack," Mrs. Radigan answered.
"Jack?" exclaimed the clubman, puzzled.
"Not my husband—my son," she returned.
"Ah," cried Mr. Mudison. "I see, I see. The child I met at Westbury, walking with a governess."
One of the greatest triumphs of this democratic country of ours is the ease with which the plain Johns of one generation are succeeded by Jacks. I have never seen this Radigan hopeful but once, and have hardly heard mention of him much oftener, but our modern system of keeping the children in storage until they are full-grown often leads us to theerroneous idea that somebody's millions are just lying in wait for a library to found.
"Mr. Fatuous said I must have a child to balance the composition," explained Mrs. Radigan. "So I had Jack brought up from Westbury, where we had been keeping him for the winter. He just hated sitting and it generally took me and the governess and a nurse to hold him. Sometimes he kicked dreadfully, but Mr. Fatuous made him look like a perfect dear. Thank goodness, though, that's over. I just couldn't stand the kicks any longer, so we got a child from an asylum I am interested in. He did splendidly."
I wondered why Mrs. Radigan troubled sitting herself, and was on the point of making the suggestion when she went on:
"So here I am, sitting looking pensively at Jack, one of my hands resting on the arm of the chair and the other holding Jack's, who is looking up affectionately at me. A bit of light comes through the window, shining on my face and on the diamond buckle on my slipper, which rests on a silk cushion. I amawfully angular and lovely and thin. Mr. Fatuous says he considers the woman in the picture one of the handsomest he has ever done. It really looks something like me."
"A perfect likeness," cried Mr. Mudison.
Mrs. Radigan was splendid when she felt the slippery floors of her real home beneath her feet. Her mien became majestic as we went from room to room—first through the portrait-gallery, where already a few of the gems Mr. Coppe had bought on commission were being hung; then into the ballroom, all white and gold, and so artfully arranged with mirrors as to make a small dance appear like a charity ball; on into the conservatory, where the artificial palms were already in place, and everything was being prepared for the rest of the plants. We retraced our steps to the other side, where the suite begins with a small salon, finished, as Mrs. Radigan explained, in light blue and gold, in the style of "Lewis cans." Beyond this is a large drawing-room in dark red, with several cosy-corners, making it the only homelike apartment in thehouse. It opens into the dining-room, done in light oak and very smart tapestries, showing a series of hunting scenes on Hempstead Plain. After this, a good idea, all Radigan's own and very original, is the little café, which opens off one corner and joins the smoking and billiard-rooms. It gives him all the comforts of his club in his own home, he says, for he can either sit down and punch a brass bell on the Flemish oak table, or have his choice passed to him through a small hole which communicates with the butler's pantry.
Altogether the house is very complete. An elevator took us to the next floor. We saw Radigan's study, with a gymnasium adjoining it, and stairs leading to a swimming-tank below; the sleeping apartments, all exact copies of the royal suite in the Hotel St. Regis; the library, where room is provided for 10,000 volumes, for which Mr. Coppe has already placed a lump order.
Everybody was delighted. For myself, I have never seen a more perfect house, one which so shows in every crack and cranny thewealth and taste that have been lavished on it. Even J. Madison Mudison, who had been wandering around rather dazed and mute, as we turned to leave, said that it was "awfully jolly." It is. If Mr. Coppe had worked for years instead of two weeks over his plans he could not have conceived a dwelling that would better express its occupants.
Mrs. Radigan was more than satisfied. I thought she would embrace the architect when we parted, so effusive was she. But instead she gave him her royal command.
"You must positively be out of the house in three weeks," she said. "I am going to give an Indian ball and want the rooms fixed up like woods and wigwams and things. I simply must have the affair before Lent."
CHAPTER XIII
We Go Skating at Exudo
I am beginning to suspect that the unwarranted report that Mrs. Radigan is to marry J. Madison Mudison and Radigan to marry Miss Bumpschus may prove true, after all. At the time when it was printed there was absolutely no ground for the story, but the publication seems to have turned the thoughts of all concerned in a new direction and the suggestion is pleasing. In their efforts to prove that such a report is cruel Miss Bumpschus is having the Radigans to something two or three times a week, and Mudison calls daily on Mrs. Radigan to express his regret. Radigan is supporting the Home for Aged Ticket-choppers, and has discovered many bonds of sympathy between Miss Ethel and himself. For instance, she loves church-workand abominates polo and bridge. J. John, in his efforts to further his wife's ambitions, has been twice hit on the head by a mallet and has been rolled on by his ponies a score of times. Poker and passing the plate at St. Edward's are much more to his taste. His wife has sporting proclivities. She likes to have a bishop to dinner. It delights her to see her husband being beaten on the head by the mallets of the smartest men in town, and to watch him in his automobile tearing off one hundred miles of beach an hour. She was in ecstasy when the story got out that he had lost $100,000 in one night's play at Potlots, and he had to spend a few weeks at Newport to avoid the subpœna servers and reporters. As he had really lost the money, Radigan did not appreciate the additional prestige the incident had won for him. So you see there is a great incompatibility in temperament. In Mudison, on the other hand, Mrs. Radigan has found her ideal man. He belongs to seven clubs; his polo handicap is nine; he is arrested monthly for overspeeding;he is literary and talks delightfully on the works of Winston Churchill and Anna K. Green; his family has been known in New York for nearly half a century, its founder being Sheriff Mudison, who left a large fortune. Of course there is the question of young Radigan, but he could easily be given to a third party, so I am not altogether sure that the change would not be a good one if Miss Bumpschus could be made to overcome her old-fashioned prejudices.
There is at present, however, no sign of a movement toward South Dakota; but I suppose if it comes to that, Mrs. Radigan would prefer to go in Lent, so as not to miss any of the winter season, and then she could be back for Newport in August. That would, of course, necessitate her giving up her plans to spend May and June in London and capture a duke for Miss Pearl Veal, but I fear she is occupying herself more with her own heart now than with her sister's hand. But the clouds are gathering for the storm—if storm it can be called. Then, are not storms always followed by fair weather? We all went to Exudo skating the other day—one of the clouds—as the guests of J. Madison, who was endeavoring to show the world that there was nothing in the cruel gossip. Besides the Radigans and Miss Bumpschus, Plumstone Smith and his fiancée, Miss Veal, he kindly asked Miss Marian Speechless and myself. By a special effort Mrs. Radigan got up very early and we were able to catch the eleven-o'clock train, so we reached the club by one. Who should we see there but Willie Lite, the Dewberry Lambs with the Count and Countess Poglioso Spinnigini, the Harry Stumbles and a lot of other nice people we know! I had a glimpse of the Van Rundouns, with some queer-looking friends from Boston, but I had no chance to speak to them. The Dewberry Lamb party joined us at luncheon and we had a very jolly time at the big round table.
Madison Mudison knows how to order—a rare accomplishment. When we got through I felt as if I never wanted to move again, but would rather stretch my legs toward the blazing fire and smoke, smoke, smoke; but when you accept an invitation your host becomes your keeper, so we were all corralled and trotted away to the lake.
Miss Speechless had brought her sister's skates, so I had to freeze my fingers adjusting the clamps to fit. Then, as I kneeled on the ice before her in a devoted attitude, while I fixed them on her feet and complained of their being too large, I froze my knees. By the time I had prepared myself to go gliding over the ice, I was all a-shiver and eager for a spurt that would start the blood going. But there, waiting for me, was Miss Speechless, standing with her feet together, balancing as though she were on a tight rope, pleading to me to hurry. She was afraid to strike out, and when I reached her, was fluttering helplessly in the wind. So there was nothing for me to do but to tow her—a difficult and dangerous task, as I am not an adept at going backward. It was work, more than I had counted on, and I was soon in a condition bordering on exhaustion. At last I was allowed a moment's rest, and as I stood there panting, Miss Speechless, fluttering in the wind, told me how jolly it was; but I paid no attention to her, my eyes being fixed on the others. At one end of the lake J. Madison Mudison and Mrs. Radigan, hand in hand, were gliding gracefully around. It was beautiful to see them. I am sure Mrs. Radigan learned the art on the canal at home, though she says she spent her winters in Canada as a child. And as for Mudison, I forgave him his legs—he should never wear knickerbockers—when I saw the way he soared around on one skate. Out would go the right feet, left feet waving gently in the air; a swerve, and they were off in the other direction. They swept around in a graceful curve and came rolling down toward us, as lightly and airily, as unconscious of all but themselves, as though there were no laws of gravitation. It was beautiful to see them!
But at the other end of the lake, what a picture! Radigan and Miss Bumpschus, hand in hand, fluttering aimlessly about.They went in little jiggety steps, and every now and then she would stop suddenly, without warning, while he would go on to destruction. He was earnestly good-natured about it, though, and would clamber up to his feet and go on with her, undaunted. I worried about them once when I saw them coasting toward a weak spot in the ice, but Radigan, with rare good judgment and self-sacrifice, sat down and averted a disaster. And Miss Bumpschus seemed to enjoy it all tremendously.
I could not stand forever in that freezing wind watching the progress of these two romances. Miss Speechless on skates was on my hands, and I had to resume my towing. A blessed moment came when Plumstone Smith rolled up and addressed some graceful nothings to her, upon which she seized his hands and asked him to take her around just once. That just once was lengthened into numberless times, for I slipped noiselessly away to the secluded spot where Miss Veal was airily cutting eights and double eightsand other figures. Together we sat on the bank, she in the shelter of her automobile coat smoking a cigarette with me, while we watched the others. Plumstone went by backward, puffing, dragging Miss Speechless after him. A smile crossed my companion's face—you should see Pearl Veal smile!—as she gazed at the spire of smoke that went heavenward from her lips. She looked at me when they had gone by, and somehow we laughed.
Mudison and Mrs. Radigan came rolling past us. They swept about and glided back to the secluded corners of the lake. Radigan and Miss Bumpschus came clattering up. They parted while they turned about, and then half-trotted, half-skated toward their end of the ice.
"Isn't it a shame that Sally should be tied down to such a poor skater as John," said Miss Veal.
But I was not thinking of John and Sally, I was covertly watching Pearl Veal, her rounded cheeks richly colored by the wind, hersoft reddish hair fluttering over the top of the upturned collar of fur, her glorious eyes on mine. I was wishing I were a duke or a member of the Stock Exchange or a champagne agent, or something like that.
CHAPTER XIV
Exit Plumstone Smith, Jr.
It has come at last, and much sooner than I had dared to expect. Of course I am speaking of Miss Pearl Veal's engagement to Plumstone Smith, Jr. Poor Plumstone! He is heart-broken. I saw him at the Ping-pong Club the other afternoon, smoking a cigarette and gazing abstractedly into the depths of a Scotch highball. He did not speak to me, and even though he might not have intended to cut me dead, such action would surely be in his right. And the cruel stories inTown Twaddleare at the bottom of it all. Last week that paper in its leader, in a guarded statement giving no names, announced that the engagement of a certain rich and beautiful girl, a new-comer from the West in Society, to a well-known clubman and cotillon-leader, a son of an old and impoverished family, had been broken. It said that the young man'smother was in bed with nervous prostration, as she had had her house elaborately decorated and had bought some stock on margins on the strength of the improvement in the family prospects; that the youth himself was spending his days in one of his clubs, pounding a bell and crying, "The same!" But still more cruel, it laid the wreck of this home to a young real-estate agent, name not given, who had been insinuating himself into the graces of the innocent beauty. Now, did you ever hear the beat of that? In a separate paragraph it most politely intimated that Miss Pearl Veal's engagement to me would soon be announced.
WhereTown Twaddlegot the story is a mystery, for it is true to the part where it accuses me of insinuating myself into the affections of another man's fiancée. Though I have known Pearl Veal many months, I do not think we had spoken a dozen words to each other up to the day when we all went skating at Exudo. Then I must admit, as we sat on the bank smoking cigarettes andwatching Plumstone cavorting around the ice with Marian Speechless, she revealed her heart to me. No one was more astounded than I.
Love steals upon us strangely in these days. Time was when men won women with the sword, when gallant deeds and pretty speeches, when a noble bearing and a nimble wit were the snare we set for beauty. How different now! Little did I dream as I sat at the Radigan table, covertly admiring Miss Veal across the board, that I was awakening a divine flame as I consumed terrapin and champagne; that I was fanning that flame when I said "Ah!" and "You don't say!" when I discoursed on the weather or the beauty of the opera. These were the snares I set—these, with a few well-cut clothes, some immaculate shirt-fronts and rather snappy ties. My conscience is clear. She would never have been happy with Plumstone had she allowed the affair to proceed to a church terminus, for it was evident that he was after her millions, and her only reason for accepting him was to gain social position. But this reason exists no longer. To-day the Radigans are smarter than the Smiths. There are those who will bemoan the fact that such a condition can exist in Society. Croakers all! Possibly they are the sons of some war, who, boasting the deeds of ancestors, are doing nothing themselves, and so are being pressed back by those who are doing to-day what the others' forebears did yesterday. For myself, I like new things; fresh people as well as fresh vegetables; new families as well as new clothes. Old families new painted are pleasant to know, but spare us the heirlooms. After all, the Plumstone Smiths are the Radigans of yesterday.
So Pearl Veal is in a position to choose. She has chosen and I bow to her will. There was a time when I suspected that she would take nothing less than a duke and would have a wedding-riot, but she says that love in a cottage is all she asks. So she has bought a forty-foot front lot on Seventy-ninth Street, and Coppe & Coppe are making plans forit. So far I have had nothing to say in the whole affair. I seem to have done my part when I ate terrapin and drank my wine, and caught the occasional lustrous glance of the blue eyes over the board; when I said "Ah!" and "You don't say!" Then Pearl took a hand and now Mrs. Radigan is running the whole affair.
Mrs. Radigan has been wonderful. Of course she never intended that her sister should marry Plumstone Smith, but after him she looked to a duke. That she consented to a real-estate agent I owe to J. Madison Mudison. She loves Mudison devotedly, I know, and it has softened her wonderfully. Her view of life has changed. She is less selfish. She sighs more and says less, and when Pearl and I asked her blessing, she just stirred her tea and said, "Oh, well, if you will."
Pearl and I were too surprised to speak for a moment.
Mrs. Radigan looked up from her tea and asked, "Who are your ushers to be?"
I said I did not care, but that I would like to have Green, who had lived in the same boarding-house with me in my lean years. At that she put her cup down and said fiercely: "I think I will have Mr. Lite act as best man. The ushers will be Harry Mint, Mr. Mudison, Bobbie Williegilt, and Dewberry Duff. John will give an ushers' dinner for you at the Ticktock Club."
"But—" I was about to protest, but even Cupid had not taken the fire from those masterful eyes, and I collapsed.
"And your bridesmaids, Pearl?" said Mrs. Radigan, turning to my fiancée.
"I would like to have my old school-friend, Mignonette Klapper," said Pearl, groping nervously for her cigarette-case.
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Radigan. "Clarissa Mudison will be maid of honor, and the other bridesmaids will be Ethel Bumpschus, Marian Speechless, Pinkey Mint, and Marguerite Lamb. You see I have been expecting this and have made my plans."