With a gesture of impatience she sat down. In a voice of cool formality, she said: “Brian and I have talked the whole thing over carefully and decided that it isn’t wise. He says it’s always a dangerous business, this coming back. He’s seen more than one come to grief because of it. And, Clare, considering everything—Mr. Bellew’s attitude and all that—don’t you think you ought to be as careful as you can?”
Clare’s deep voice broke the small silence that had followed Irene’s speech. She said, speaking almost plaintively: “I ought to have known. It’s Jack. I don’t blame you for being angry, though I must say you behaved beautifully that day. But I did think you’d understand, ’Rene. It was that, partly, that has made me want to see other people. It just swooped down and changed everything. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d have gone on to the end, never seeing any of you. But that did something to me, and I’ve been so lonely since! You can’t know. Not close to a single soul. Never anyone to really talk to.”
Irene pressed out her cigarette. While doing so, she saw again the vision of Clare Kendry staring disdainfully down at the face of her father, and thought that it would be like that that she would look at her husband if he lay dead before her.
Her own resentment was swept aside and her voice held an accent of pity as she exclaimed: “Why, Clare! I didn’t know. Forgive me. I feel like seven beasts. It was stupid of me not to realize.”
“No. Not at all. You couldn’t. Nobody, none of you, could,” Clare moaned. The black eyes filled with tears that ran down her cheeks and spilled into her lap, ruining the priceless velvet of her dress. Her long hands were a little uplifted and clasped tightly together. Her effort to speak moderately was obvious, but not successful. “How could you know? How could you? You’re free. You’re happy. And,” with faint derision, “safe.”
Irene passed over that touch of derision, for the poignant rebellion of the other’s words had brought the tears to her own eyes, though she didn’t allow them to fall. The truth was that she knew weeping did not become her. Few women, she imagined, wept as attractively as Clare. “I’m beginning to believe,” she murmured, “that no one is ever completely happy, or free, or safe.”
“Well, then, what does it matter? One risk more or less, if we’re not safe anyway, if even you’re not, it can’t make all the difference in the world. It can’t to me. Besides, I’m used to risks. And this isn’t such a big one as you’re trying to make it.”
“Oh, but it is. And it can make all the difference in the world. There’s your little girl, Clare. Think of the consequences to her.”
Clare’s face took on a startled look, as though she were totally unprepared for this new weapon with which Irene had assailed her. Seconds passed, during which she sat with stricken eyes and compressed lips. “I think,” she said at last, “that being a mother is the cruellest thing in the world.” Her clasped hands swayed forward and back again, and her scarlet mouth trembled irrepressibly.
“Yes,” Irene softly agreed. For a moment she was unable to say more, so accurately had Clare put into words that which, not so definitely defined, was so often in her own heart of late. At the same time she was conscious that here, to her hand, was a reason which could not be lightly brushed aside. “Yes,” she repeated, “and the most responsible, Clare. We mothers are all responsible for the security and happiness of our children. Think what it would mean to your Margery if Mr. Bellew should find out. You’d probably lose her. And even if you didn’t, nothing that concerned her would ever be the same again. He’d never forget that she had Negro blood. And if she should learn—Well, I believe that after twelve it is too late to learn a thing like that. She’d never forgive you. You may be used to risks, but this is one you mustn’t take, Clare. It’s a selfish whim, an unnecessary and—
“Yes, Zulena, what is it?” she inquired, a trifle tartly, of the servant who had silently materialized in the doorway.
“The telephone’s for you, Mrs. Redfield. It’s Mr. Wentworth.”
“All right. Thank you. I’ll take it here.” And, with a muttered apology to Clare, she took up the instrument.
“Hello. … Yes, Hugh. … Oh, quite. … And you? … I’m sorry, every single thing’s gone. … Oh, too bad. … Ye‑es, I s’pose you could. Not very pleasant, though. … Yes, of course, in a pinch everything goes. … Wait! I’ve got it! I’ll change mine with whoever’s next to you, and you can have that. … No. … I mean it. … I’ll be so busy I shan’t know whether I’m sitting or standing. … As long as Brian has a place to drop down now and then. … Not a single soul. … No, don’t. … That’s nice. … My love to Bianca. … I’ll see to it right away and call you back. … Goodbye.”
She hung up and turned back to Clare, a little frown on her softly chiselled features. “It’s the N.W.L. dance,” she explained, “the Negro Welfare League, you know. I’m on the ticket committee, or, rather, I am the committee. Thank heaven it comes off tomorrow night and doesn’t happen again for a year. I’m about crazy, and now I’ve got to persuade somebody to change boxes with me.”
“That wasn’t,” Clare asked, “Hugh Wentworth? Not the Hugh Wentworth?”
Irene inclined her head. On her face was a tiny triumphant smile. “Yes, the Hugh Wentworth. D’you know him?”
“No. How should I? But I do know about him. And I’ve read a book or
