Angela was bewildered by this outburst. “I thought you said you didn’t like affairs unless you could conduct them in your own pied à terre.”
“Did I? Well that was another time—not today. By the way, what would you say if I were to tell you that I’m going to Russia?”
She glanced at her friend with the bright shamelessness of a child, for she knew that Angela had heard of Jack Hudson’s acceptance as newspaper correspondent in Moscow.
“I wouldn’t say anything except that I’d much rather be here in the warmth and cleanliness of the Ritz than be in Moscow where I’m sure it will be cold and dirty.”
“That’s because you’ve never wanted anyone.” Her face for a moment was all desire. Beautiful but terrible too. “She actually looks like Hetty Daniels,” thought Angela in astonishment. Only, alas, there was no longer any beauty in Hetty’s face.
“When you’ve set your heart on anybody or on anything there’ll be no telling what you’ll do, Angèle. For all your innocence you’re as deep, you’ll be as desperate as Martha Burden once you’re started. I know your kind. Well, if you must play around in the Ritz, etcet., etcet., I’ll tell Roger Fielding. He’s a good squire and he can afford it.”
“Why? Is he so rich?”
“Rich! If all the wealth that he—no, not he, but his father—if all the wealth that old man Fielding possesses were to be converted into silver dollars there wouldn’t be space enough in this room, big as it is, to hold it.”
Angela tried to envisage it. “And Roger, what does he do?”
“Spend it. What is there for him to do? Nothing except have a good time and keep in his father’s good graces. His father’s some kind of a personage and all that, you know, crazy about his name and his posterity. Roger doesn’t dare get drunk and lie in the gutter and he mustn’t make a misalliance. Outside of that the world’s his oyster and he eats it every day. There’s a boy who gets everything he wants.”
“What do you mean by a misalliance? He’s not royalty.”
“Spoken like a good American. No, he’s not. But he mustn’t marry outside certain limits. No chorus girl romances for his father. The old man wouldn’t care a rap about money but he would insist on blue blood and the Mayflower. The funny thing is that Roger, for all his appearing so democratic, is that way too. But of course he’s been so run after the marvel is that he’s as unspoiled as he is. But it’s the one thing I can’t stick in him. I don’t mind a man’s not marrying me; but I can’t forgive him if he thinks I’m not good enough to marry him. Any woman is better than the best of men.” Her face took on its intense, burning expression; one would have said she was consumed with excitement.
Angela nodded, only half-listening. Roger a multimillionaire! Roger who only two nights ago had kissed and mumbled her fingers, his eyes avid and yet so humble and beseeching!
“One thing, if you do start playing around with Roger be careful. He’s a good bit of a rotter, and he doesn’t care what he says or spends to gain his ends.” She laughed at the inquiry in her friend’s eyes. “No, I’ve never given Roger five minutes’ thought. But I know his kind. They’re dangerous. It’s wrong for men to have both money and power; they’re bound to make some woman suffer. Come on up the Avenue with me and I’ll buy a hat. I can’t wear this whang any longer. It’s too small, looks like a peanut on a barrel.”
Angela was visual minded. She saw the days of the week, the months of the year in little narrow divisions of space. She saw the past years of her life falling into separate, uneven compartments whose ensemble made up her existence. Whenever she looked back on this period from Christmas to Easter she saw a bluish haze beginning in a white mist and flaming into something red and terrible; and across the bluish haze stretched the name: Roger.
Roger! She had never seen anyone like him: so gay, so beautiful, like a blond, glorious god, so overwhelming, so persistent. She had not liked him so much at first except as one likes the sun or the sky or a singing bird, anything jolly and free. There had been no touching points for their minds. He knew nothing of life except what was pleasurable; it is true his idea of the pleasurable did not always coincide with hers. He had no fears, no restraints, no worries. Yes, he had one; he did not want to offend his father. He wanted ardently and unswervingly his father’s money. He did not begrudge his senior a day, an hour, a moment of life; about this he had a queer, unselfish sincerity. The old financial warhorse had made his fortune by hard labour and pitiless fighting. He had given Roger his being, the entrée into a wonderful existence. Already he bestowed upon him an annual sum which would have kept several families in comfort. If Roger had cared to save for two years he need never have asked his father for another cent. With any kind of luck he could have built up for himself a second colossal fortune. But he did not care to do
