Celia felt let into a Garden of Eden when a Mrs. Ruykendahl, with whom she had exchanged civilities in the elevator and once shared a taxi, drifted into her office with a candidly appraising air one afternoon. “I’m going to be terribly frank and say that a dinner guest has canceled out on me, and could you possibly help me out of a spot tonight? If you’re not busy, of course.”
In spite of her prettily deferential air Mrs. Ruykendahl clearly assumed that no young woman presented with such an invitation could be that busy, and she was quite right. Celia, who had a date with the publicity man, said that she’d be delighted, and Mrs. Ruykendahl bent and scribbled and said, “Seven o’clock, then, and here’s the address and you’re an absolute dear. We’ll only be eight, and not formal.”
Celia rummaged through her slender but now-good wardrobe, and wore a creamy dinner suit with the small topaz earrings Mrs. Pond had given her as a parting present. She was dazzled at the Ruykendahl residence, and not in the least dismayed that she had been invited as partner for a fortyish man with thinning corn-colored hair and prominent teeth. She was composed and quiet, but the circumstances gave her a glow not to be observed among the other women present; she did not miss her hostess’s occasional glance of approbation.
No one, looking at Celia, would have suspected that her whole body echoed with triumph and excitement. She had served at so many dinners that, presently, the array of heavy Ruykendahl silver and crystal held no bafflements for her, and she had so completely mastered the art of taking in detail that, to the outward eye, these might have been her natural surroundings. She was neither coy nor vivacious, as either attitude would sit awkwardly upon someone with her height and boning and breadth of shoulder, and this alone was challenging to her partner, who was not only wealthy but eligible.
He began to draw her out. Had she perhaps, he inquired, been to school in England as a child? He was sure he had noticed an inflection now and again . . .
“Yes, people tell me that. It’s very simple really,” said Celia, smiling and unobtrusively laying down her fork; she had prepared her groundwork well, but she was not going to cope with it and broccoli in Hollandaise sauce at the same time. “When I was quite little I spent some time, summers and school vacations, with cousins of my mother’s in Baltimore. They were English, or rather my Uncle Harry was—he wasn’t my uncle, but of course I called him that—in fact there was a title somewhere,” said Celia, throwing this out with democratic vagueness. “Anyway, nothing would do but an English governess for their children, and as I was about the same age I got the benefit of the accent too. I sometimes think I hang onto it subconsciously,” she turned her dark gaze on him with disarming candor “simply out of nostalgia.”
Her partner, with no difficult paths to tread, was disposing of his broccoli without any diminution of attentiveness. “You’ve never been back, then?”
“No.” Perhaps because of her peculiar excitement Celia was ravenously hungry, and she now judged it safe to pick up her fork again. As a result of Paul Vestry’s random inquiry on that Christmas weekend, she had paid fifty dollars to a cynical-eyed man in a third-floor walk-up office who provided wanted family trees, and she felt tranquil. “Uncle Harry died, and the children were taken back to his family in England. I’ve lost all touch, but I believe the old place in Baltimore has changed hands at least twice. I’d really rather not see it at all.”
“Sad,” observed her partner, dispatching a last piece of roast beef.
“Oh, well.” A rapid under-the-lashes glance around the table convinced Celia that she would have to abandon the rest of her own roast beef, as the middle-aged maid had been standing patiently in the background for some time. “What’s really important is to recognize the especially happy parts of childhood while you’re having them, isn’t it?”
This poignant philosophy came straight out of a LADY newsletter, and was strangely unanswerable. Celia consumed her dessert and coffee relaxedly and with enjoyment. She had never read the advice of a celebrated fashion authority that any new costume should be worn first in solitude, so as to guarantee ease on the part of the wearer, but the effect of her own experiment was much the same.
She had tried on the Baltimore-Bretts costume, and could don it without worry.
Her dinner partner escorted her home at eleven, pressed her hand warmly, said decorously, “May I?” and kissed her cheek with unexpected expertise. Celia never saw him again, because he was only traveling through New York on some business mission connected with Mr. Ruykendahl’s shipping interests, but for her the evening had been an unqualified success. Almost by accident she had hit upon the only social role she could carry off. She might not sparkle, but she could certainly glow; she could create a tiny intriguing island of silence, full of what appeared to be thoughtfully withheld comment.
And—unable to go to bed in her tense exhilaration, Celia paced about, occasionally pausing to study her mirrored reflection for nearly a minute at a time—she would have to educate herself in a new area; the evening had shown her that. Other women would challenge her, even if men did not, so although she found any reading matter apart from fashion magazines both difficult and boring, she would have to familiarize herself to some extent with the national news. Politics she felt she could safely ignore, but it was necessary to know something (she could just read the reviews) about best-selling novels and talked-about plays. In total seriousness, Celia decided to set apart an hour for this every night, or perhaps
