Jane heard the doorbell. That would be Isabel. She turned from the roses as her sister entered. Isabel was well-groomed, too, Jane noticed with a sigh. Well-groomed and portly, with a stole of silver fox thrown around her substantial blue broadcloth shoulders and a smart little black hat pulled unbecomingly down over her worn round face, uncompromisingly concealing the soft waves of her silvery hair. Modern styles were made for the young, Jane reflected.
“Happy birthday!” said Isabel as she kissed her.
Jane acknowledged the ironic salute.
“You won’t mind any other, you know,” smiled Isabel, “until the sixtieth.”
“I don’t mind this one,” said Jane stoutly.
“Tell that to the marines!” laughed Isabel. “I’ll never forget Muriel’s! Wasn’t she down?”
“She certainly was,” smiled Jane, “in spite of the celebration.”
Muriel’s fiftieth birthday had occurred last month. She had celebrated it by taking off her mourning for Bert. He had been dead two years.
“Muriel’s gone off awfully,” sighed Isabel. It was rather a sigh of satisfaction, however. “She’s reverting to race as she gets older.”
“It was a mistake,” said Jane, “for her to bob her hair.”
“It certainly was,” said Isabel. She threw off her fox fur and sank down in Stephen’s armchair. “Do you know that she’s been seeing an awful lot of Ed Brown?”
“I know,” said Jane, “and I can’t understand it. I can’t even understand how she came to know him. He’s very unattractive.”
Isabel, as usual, could supply all required details.
“He gave her twenty-five thousand dollars in her campaign for the Crippled Children. She went to see him in Flora’s old house. He’s turned the gold parlour into his private office.”
A little shiver of repulsion passed over Jane.
“Don’t, Isabel!” she cried. “I can’t bear to think of it!”
“Can you?” said Isabel. “But he has. I suppose he was bowled over by the sight of Mrs. Albert Lancaster in the flesh! He’s just the kind that would read all the society columns. Anyway, he drew out his checkbook with a flourish and that gesture made a great hit with Muriel.”
“He must be as old as Bert Lancaster was,” mused Jane.
“Oh, no, dear,” said Isabel promptly. “Bert was sixty-seven when he died. Ed Brown can’t be a day over sixty.”
“Well, anyway,” said Jane, “it won’t come to anything.”
“Rosalie’s not so sure,” said Isabel. “He has millions. Bert’s illness was awfully expensive, you know. And Muriel’s been generous to Albert.”
“Oh, Isabel!” said Jane defensively. “That won’t make any difference! Whatever you may say against Muriel, she never cared about money. All Muriel ever wanted in life was excitement and admiration and—”
“And love,” interrupted Isabel, with decision. “Ed Brown could love her. Any man can do that. He could love her in an opera box and a Rolls-Royce town-car and a sable cape! I think Muriel would enjoy it immensely.”
“A billboard king,” said Jane reflectively. “I don’t just see Muriel Lancaster as a billboard queen.”
“He’s the president of the Watseka Country Club,” said Isabel with a twinkle. “But I think Muriel could be relied on to make him resign. He couldn’t resign from his married daughters, however. I should think Pearl and Gertie would give Muriel pause for thought.”
Isabel’s command of facts was really astounding.
“Are those their names?”
Isabel nodded solemnly.
“They’re terrible, Jane. They play bridge in the afternoons in lace evening gowns and they wear white fox furs in streetcars! At home, I’m sure they have flats with sun parlours and sit in them in boudoir caps, reading the comic supplements of the Sunday papers—”
“Isabel!” laughed Jane. “You’re simply morbid!”
“Merely clairvoyante,” smiled Isabel. “But I tell you, Jane, since Bert died, curiously enough, Muriel’s been rather lonely. She couldn’t talk to him, of course. But as long as he lived she had to plan for him and quarrel with his nurses and argue with his doctors. It gave her something to do.”
Just then the maid entered the room, bearing the tea-tray. Isabel, pausing discreetly, glanced up at her, just as Mrs. Ward used to glance at Minnie.
“Where’s Jenny?” she asked, on just her mother’s note of hollow inquiry, as Jane poured the water on the tea leaves.
“Out walking with her dogs,” said Jane.
The maid left the room and Isabel promptly resumed.
“It’s fun to flirt, you know, when you haven’t much time for it. But you can’t make a life out of philandering. Not even if you’re Muriel. Especially at fifty.”
“Two lumps?” said Jane.
“Two lumps,” said Isabel. “And lots of cream.” She rose to pick up her cup and stood silently on the hearthrug for a moment, absently stirring her tea. “You know, Jane,” she resumed presently, “it’s a little difficult, from fifty on, to decide just what you will make a life out of. And speaking of that, old girl, what are we going to do about Mamma? She says she won’t go away for the summer.”
“She must,” said Jane firmly, as she offered the toast.
“Well, she won’t,” said Isabel, accepting a piece. “She won’t because of Minnie’s asthma. Minnie has every kind of asthma there is—horse, rose, and goldenrod! Mamma says Minnie must stay in town. Or Minnie says Mamma must. It’s too ridiculous, but I can’t do a thing with her! We ought to have got rid of Minnie years ago, Jane. She rules Mamma with a rod of iron.”
“We’re lucky to have her,” said Jane. “Mamma adores her and she takes very good care of her.”
“We could take care of her,” said Isabel.
“Could we?” said Jane. “I mean—you know, Isabel—would we? Mamma’s awfully trying. Just as trying as Minnie, really. Minnie’s the only person in the world who can manage her.”
“It’s dreadful,” said Isabel, “to think of Mamma being managed by a servant. When you remember how she used to be—so pretty and proud and decided.”
“She’s a very old lady now,” said Jane. “A very lonely old lady.”
“Jane,” said Isabel solemnly, “when you see
