society.
The intimate reunion, of the not–more–than–the–Muses kind, was not
Pauline's affair. She was aware of this, and seldom made the
attempt—though, when she did, she was never able to discover why
it was not a success. But in the organizing and administering of a
big dinner she was conscious of mastery. Not the stupid big dinner
of old days, when the "crowned heads" used to be treated like a
caste apart, and everlastingly invited to meet each other through a
whole monotonous season: Pauline was too modern for that. She
excelled in a judicious blending of Wall Street and Bohemia, and
her particular art lay in her selection of the latter element. Of
course there were Bohemians and Bohemians; as she had once remarked
to Nona, people weren't always amusing just because they were
clever, or dull just because they were rich—though at the last
clause Nona had screwed up her nose incredulously… Well, even
Nona would be satisfied tonight, Pauline thought. It wasn't
everybody who would have been bold enough to ask a social reformer
like Parker Greg with the very people least disposed to encourage
social reform, nor a young composer like Torfried Lobb (a disciple
of "The Six") with all those stolid opera–goers, nor that
disturbing Tommy Ardwin, the Cubist decorator, with the owners of
the most expensive "period houses" in Fifth Avenue.
Pauline was not a bit afraid of such combinations. She knew in
advance that at one of her dinners everything would "go"—it always
did. And her success amused and exhilarated her so much that, even
tonight, though she had come down oppressed with problems, they
slipped from her before she even had time to remind herself that
they were nonexistent. She had only to look at the faces gathered
about that subdued radiance of old silver and scattered flowers to
be sure of it. There, at the other end of the table, was her
husband's dark head, comely and resolute in its vigorous middle–
age; on his right the Marchesa di San Fedele, the famous San Fedele
pearls illuminating her inconspicuous black; on his left the
handsome Mrs. Herman Toy, magnanimously placed there by Pauline
because she knew that Manford was said to be "taken" by her, and
she wanted him to be in good–humour that evening. To measure her
own competence she had only to take in this group, already settling
down to an evening's enjoyment, and then let her glance travel on
to the others, the young and handsome women, the well–dressed
confident–looking men. Nona, grave yet eager, was talking to
Manford's legal rival, the brilliant Alfred Cosby, who was known to
have said she was the cleverest girl in New York. Lita, cool and
aloof, drooped her head slightly to listen to Torfried Lobb, the
composer; Jim gazed across the table at Lita as if his adoration
made every intervening obstacle transparent; Aggie Heuston, whose
coldness certainly made her look distinguished, though people
complained that she was dull, dispensed occasional monosyllables to
the ponderous Herman Toy; and Stanley Heuston, leaning back with
that faint dry smile which Pauline found irritating because it was
so inscrutable, kept his eyes discreetly but steadily on Nona.
Dear good Stan, always like a brother to Nona! People who knew him
well said he wasn't as sardonic as he looked.
It was a world after Pauline's heart—a world such as she believed
its Maker meant it to be. She turned to the Bishop on her right,
wondering if he shared her satisfaction, and encountered a glance
of understanding.
"So refreshing to be among old friends… This is one of the few
houses left… Always such a pleasure to meet the dear Marchesa;
I hope she has better reports of her son? Wretched business, I'm
afraid. My dear Mrs. Manford, I wonder if you know how blessed you
are in your children? That wise little Nona, who is going to make
some man so happy one of these days—not Cosby, no? Too much
difference in age? And your steady Jim and his idol … yes, I
know it doesn't
The intimate reunion, of the not–more–than–the–Muses kind, was not
Pauline's affair. She was aware of this, and seldom made the
attempt—though, when she did, she was never able to discover why
it was not a success. But in the organizing and administering of a
big dinner she was conscious of mastery. Not the stupid big dinner
of old days, when the "crowned heads" used to be treated like a
caste apart, and everlastingly invited to meet each other through a
whole monotonous season: Pauline was too modern for that. She
excelled in a judicious blending of Wall Street and Bohemia, and
her particular art lay in her selection of the latter element. Of
course there were Bohemians and Bohemians; as she had once remarked
to Nona, people weren't always amusing just because they were
clever, or dull just because they were rich—though at the last
clause Nona had screwed up her nose incredulously… Well, even
Nona would be satisfied tonight, Pauline thought. It wasn't
everybody who would have been bold enough to ask a social reformer
like Parker Greg with the very people least disposed to encourage
social reform, nor a young composer like Torfried Lobb (a disciple
of "The Six") with all those stolid opera–goers, nor that
disturbing Tommy Ardwin, the Cubist decorator, with the owners of
the most expensive "period houses" in Fifth Avenue.
Pauline was not a bit afraid of such combinations. She knew in
advance that at one of her dinners everything would "go"—it always
did. And her success amused and exhilarated her so much that, even
tonight, though she had come down oppressed with problems, they
slipped from her before she even had time to remind herself that
they were nonexistent. She had only to look at the faces gathered
about that subdued radiance of old silver and scattered flowers to
be sure of it. There, at the other end of the table, was her
husband's dark head, comely and resolute in its vigorous middle–
age; on his right the Marchesa di San Fedele, the famous San Fedele
pearls illuminating her inconspicuous black; on his left the
handsome Mrs. Herman Toy, magnanimously placed there by Pauline
because she knew that Manford was said to be "taken" by her, and
she wanted him to be in good–humour that evening. To measure her
own competence she had only to take in this group, already settling
down to an evening's enjoyment, and then let her glance travel on
to the others, the young and handsome women, the well–dressed
confident–looking men. Nona, grave yet eager, was talking to
Manford's legal rival, the brilliant Alfred Cosby, who was known to
have said she was the cleverest girl in New York. Lita, cool and
aloof, drooped her head slightly to listen to Torfried Lobb, the
composer; Jim gazed across the table at Lita as if his adoration
made every intervening obstacle transparent; Aggie Heuston, whose
coldness certainly made her look distinguished, though people
complained that she was dull, dispensed occasional monosyllables to
the ponderous Herman Toy; and Stanley Heuston, leaning back with
that faint dry smile which Pauline found irritating because it was
so inscrutable, kept his eyes discreetly but steadily on Nona.
Dear good Stan, always like a brother to Nona! People who knew him
well said he wasn't as sardonic as he looked.
It was a world after Pauline's heart—a world such as she believed
its Maker meant it to be. She turned to the Bishop on her right,
wondering if he shared her satisfaction, and encountered a glance
of understanding.
"So refreshing to be among old friends… This is one of the few
houses left… Always such a pleasure to meet the dear Marchesa;
I hope she has better reports of her son? Wretched business, I'm
afraid. My dear Mrs. Manford, I wonder if you know how blessed you
are in your children? That wise little Nona, who is going to make
some man so happy one of these days—not Cosby, no? Too much
difference in age? And your steady Jim and his idol … yes, I
know it doesn't
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