city churn inaccessibly below. The wind was strong in that corner; I turned my back against it and clasped my arms and felt the little hairs spring up on balls of flesh; and the wind blew through my dress, and caught up the silver of its loosened train and flew it like a ship's standard, freely, over the city. It was a banner of presence and identity, a sign to Gustave Nicholas Tilbeck that I knew him to be not far; it was a money-flag, and the chink of money went rattling through it.
It made me reckless as a pirate. "William needn't wear his terrible look," I burst out. "It's impertinent of him to be ashamed for my mother."
"No; no," he murmured, smiling and smiling, "you don't follow. It's simply a question of where the money goes. It's simply a question," he repeated steadily, "of the terms of the trust." He bent forward, vivid with interest. "He's got to know everything."
"I suppose it isn't the function of a trustee to trust anyone."
"It's his job to protect the fund. And Mrs. Vand."
"Mrs. Vand protects herself," I countered, growing tired of it all.
"By giving away her money?"
"There must be some left over, isn't there?" Stefanie consoled.
"Connelly had to post the check under Miscellaneous Expenses," William's son informed me ominously.
"Poor chap," I said. "What a blow."
"Who d'you suppose it's for?" Stefanie wondered. "I mean the check."
"I don't know," I said.
"Don't you want to find out?"
"I'm not a spy."
"But you must think about it sometimes," she pressed. "Don't you have any ideas? You know—theories."
"I'm like Connelly," I revealed. "I'm too meticulous for theories."
"She doesn't need any," William's son confidently perceived. "She knows."
"She knows and won't tell," Stefanie improved. She stretched appealingly; she yawned. "Maybe the money's for something wicked."
"Or something good," William's son suggested. "A poor but respectable family, hoping someday to repay the bountiful lady, wishes to receive its disbursements anonymously."
"But then your father would approve," she promptly recollected. "No, it's for something wicked. What can you think of that's bad?"
They went on teasing and speculating in this fashion for some minutes. It soon became plain that it had nothing to do with me. All along it had had nothing to do with me. It was a flirtation, and I their plaything; and now, at its climax, I was in fact quickly excluded, and occupied myself with retrieving my sash and tying it behind me. It was difficult to do; it rustled and slipped away and tinkled and whispered; and for a time my hands were entangled in silver and gold. At last I contrived to finish the knot, and drew the ends before me in two full loops; and through the circle of silk I held in the air just then—it might have been the gesture of a panhandler who puts out his hat with both hands—I saw the two of them leaning across the little space between their chairs, susurrant, kissing.
They laughed because I had glimpsed them.
"Encore un peu," William's son demanded flawlessly, and grasped her small bare complaisant wrists.
She admonished him remotely: "Is that
all
you can think of that's bad?"—kissing him.
But they did not mind my standing there; perhaps they thought me benevolent. They entwined, at any rate, their two bright shadows, with a fuss of shoe-soles on flagstones and much scraping, before they settled into immobility, of sleeves and voices and thighs thickly swathed. But still I did not go. The illusion of their pleasure captivated me: they had the desirable grace of seeming not to plunder the moment but to charm it, as though it were really the moment itself which took the spoils of their long, long kiss.
But the prize of pleasure is only an imagining, for there was nothing there to be ensnared but myself—an attendant more bereft than curious—, the air swift as money and the horn's howl.
7
Crossing the ballroom I was confronted by my mother's editor. I recognized him as the young man who had
It made me reckless as a pirate. "William needn't wear his terrible look," I burst out. "It's impertinent of him to be ashamed for my mother."
"No; no," he murmured, smiling and smiling, "you don't follow. It's simply a question of where the money goes. It's simply a question," he repeated steadily, "of the terms of the trust." He bent forward, vivid with interest. "He's got to know everything."
"I suppose it isn't the function of a trustee to trust anyone."
"It's his job to protect the fund. And Mrs. Vand."
"Mrs. Vand protects herself," I countered, growing tired of it all.
"By giving away her money?"
"There must be some left over, isn't there?" Stefanie consoled.
"Connelly had to post the check under Miscellaneous Expenses," William's son informed me ominously.
"Poor chap," I said. "What a blow."
"Who d'you suppose it's for?" Stefanie wondered. "I mean the check."
"I don't know," I said.
"Don't you want to find out?"
"I'm not a spy."
"But you must think about it sometimes," she pressed. "Don't you have any ideas? You know—theories."
"I'm like Connelly," I revealed. "I'm too meticulous for theories."
"She doesn't need any," William's son confidently perceived. "She knows."
"She knows and won't tell," Stefanie improved. She stretched appealingly; she yawned. "Maybe the money's for something wicked."
"Or something good," William's son suggested. "A poor but respectable family, hoping someday to repay the bountiful lady, wishes to receive its disbursements anonymously."
"But then your father would approve," she promptly recollected. "No, it's for something wicked. What can you think of that's bad?"
They went on teasing and speculating in this fashion for some minutes. It soon became plain that it had nothing to do with me. All along it had had nothing to do with me. It was a flirtation, and I their plaything; and now, at its climax, I was in fact quickly excluded, and occupied myself with retrieving my sash and tying it behind me. It was difficult to do; it rustled and slipped away and tinkled and whispered; and for a time my hands were entangled in silver and gold. At last I contrived to finish the knot, and drew the ends before me in two full loops; and through the circle of silk I held in the air just then—it might have been the gesture of a panhandler who puts out his hat with both hands—I saw the two of them leaning across the little space between their chairs, susurrant, kissing.
They laughed because I had glimpsed them.
"Encore un peu," William's son demanded flawlessly, and grasped her small bare complaisant wrists.
She admonished him remotely: "Is that
all
you can think of that's bad?"—kissing him.
But they did not mind my standing there; perhaps they thought me benevolent. They entwined, at any rate, their two bright shadows, with a fuss of shoe-soles on flagstones and much scraping, before they settled into immobility, of sleeves and voices and thighs thickly swathed. But still I did not go. The illusion of their pleasure captivated me: they had the desirable grace of seeming not to plunder the moment but to charm it, as though it were really the moment itself which took the spoils of their long, long kiss.
But the prize of pleasure is only an imagining, for there was nothing there to be ensnared but myself—an attendant more bereft than curious—, the air swift as money and the horn's howl.
7
Crossing the ballroom I was confronted by my mother's editor. I recognized him as the young man who had
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