Colour—here the old problem came up again. Restlessly she paced the room, a smouldering cigarette in her fingers. She rarely smoked but sometimes the insensate little cylinder gave her a sense of companionship. Colour, colour, she had forgotten it. Now what should she do—tell Anthony? He was Spanish, she remembered, or no—since he came from Brazil he was probably Portuguese, a member of a race devoid, notoriously devoid of prejudice against black blood. But Anthony had lived in America long enough to become inoculated; had he ever spoken about coloured people, had the subject ever come up? Wait a minute, there was Miss Powell; she remembered now that his conduct towards the young coloured woman had always been conspicuously correct; he had placed chairs for her, opened doors, set up easels; once the three of them had walked out of Cooper Union together and Anthony had carefully helped Miss Powell on a car, removing his hat with that slightly foreign gesture which she admired so much. And so far as she knew he had never used any of Roger’s cruelly slighting expressions; the terms “coon,” “nigger,” “darky” had never crossed his lips. Clearly he had no conscious feeling against her people—“my people” she repeated, smiling, and wondered herself which people she meant, for she belonged to two races, and to one far more conspicuously than the other. Why, Anthony had even attended the Van Meier lecture. And she wondered what Van Meier would say if she presented her problem to him. He had no brief, she knew, against intermarriage, though, because of the high social forfeit levied, he did not advocate its practice in America. For a moment she considered going to him and asking his advice. But she was afraid that he would speak to her about racial pride and she did not want to think of that. Life, life was what she was struggling for, the right to live and be happy. And once more her mother’s dictum flashed into her mind. “Life is more important than colour.” This, she told herself, was an omen, her mother was watching over her, guiding her. And, burying her face in her hands, she fell on her knees and wept and prayed.
Virginia sent a gay missive: “As soon as you left that wretch of a Sara told me that she had let you in on the great news. I wish I’d known it, I’d have spoken to you about it there in the hall; only there was so much to explain. But now you know the main facts, and I can wait until I see you to tell you the rest. But isn’t it all wonderful? Angela, I do believe I’m almost the happiest girl alive!
“It’s too lovely here. Edna is very kind and you know I always did like Pennsylvania country. Matthew is out almost every day. He tells me it renews his youth to come and talk about old times—anyone to hear us reminiscing, starting every other sentence with ‘do you remember—?’ would think that we averaged at least ninety years apiece. It won’t pique your vanity, will it, if I tell you that he seems to have recovered entirely from his old crush on you? Maybe he was just in love with the family and didn’t know it.
“We go into Philadelphia every day or two. The city has changed amazingly. But after the hit or miss method of New York society there is something very restful and safe about this tight organization of ‘old Philadelphians.’ In the short time I’ve been here I’ve met loads of first families, people whose names we only knew when we were children. But they all seem to remember father and mother; they all begin: ‘My dear, I remember when Junius Murray—’ I meet all these people, old and young, through Matthew, who seems to have become quite the beau here and goes everywhere. He really is different. Even his hair in some mysterious way is changed. Not that I ever minded; only he’s so awfully nice that I just would like all the nice things of the world added unto him. We were talking the other day about the wedding, and I was thinking what a really distinguished appearance he would make. Dear old Matt, I’m glad I put off marriage until he could cut a fine figure. Write me, darling, if you feel like it, but don’t expect to hear much from me. I’m so happy I can’t keep still long enough to write. The minute I get back to New York though we’ll have such a talk as never was.”
Mrs. Denver was growing happier; New York was redeeming itself and revealing all the riches which she had suspected lay hidden in its warehouses. Through one letter of introduction forced into her unwilling hands by an officious acquaintance on her departure from Butte she had gained an entrée into that kindest and happiest of New York’s varied groups, the band of writers, columnists, publishers and critics. The lady from the middle West had no literary pretensions herself, but she liked people who had them and lived up to them; she kept abreast of literary gossip, read Vanity Fair, the New Yorker, and Mercury. As she was fairly young, dainty, wealthy and generous and no grinder of axes, she was caught up and whirled right along into the galaxy of teas, luncheons, theatre parties and “barbecues” which formed the relaxations of this joyous crowd. Soon she was overwhelmed, with more invitations than she could accept; to those which she did consider she always couched her acceptance in the same terms. “Yes I’ll come if I may bring my young friend, Angèle Mory, along with me. She’s a painter whom you’ll all be glad to know some day.” Angela’s chance kindness
