“We’ll kill each other,” smiled Jane. “Let’s make a suicide pact.”
“I mean it,” said Isabel.
“So do I,” said Jane. “We’ll jump off the Michigan Boulevard Bridge together.” The thought had really caught Jane’s fancy. “Some early spring afternoon, I think, Isabel, when the ice is just out of the river and the first seagulls have come and the water’s running very clear and green. We’ll climb up on the parapet together—which will be difficult as we’ll both be a little infirm—and take a last look down the boulevard, thinking of how it was once just Pine Street. We’ll shut our eyes and remember the old square houses and the wide green yards and the elm trees, meeting over the cedar-block pavement. We’ll remember the yellow ice wagons, Isabel, and the Furnesses’ four-in-hand, and the bicycles and the hurdy-gurdies and our front steps on summer evenings. And then we’ll take hands and say ‘Out, brief candle!’ and jump! It would make a nine days’ wonder and the front page of all the newspapers, but I think it would be worth it!”
“It would be worth it to Cicily and Belle and Jenny,” said Isabel cynically. “They wouldn’t have to cope with anything worse than a double funeral!”
“To Cicily and Jenny, perhaps,” assented Jane. “Belle won’t have to cope with much if Albert stays in the diplomatic service and keeps the ocean between you.”
“I hope he won’t stay in it,” said Isabel. “He’s got as far up now as he can ever get without a great deal more money. You need millions, Jane, for even a second-rate embassy. Belle’s awfully tired of being the wife of an undersecretary and having a different baby in a new city every third year. I hope to goodness if she ever has another it will be a son! Three daughters in nine years is enough for Belle to handle!”
“A boy in time saves nine!” smiled Jane. As she spoke she heard the doorbell. “That’s probably Cicily,” she said. “She was going to bring over the children.”
In a moment, however, Muriel’s voice was heard in the hall.
“Is Mrs. Carver at home?” She appeared in the doorway, holding a little package in her hands. Muriel hadn’t gone off much, reflected Jane. She was looking very charming, that afternoon, in a new grey spring suit and a little red hat that matched the colour of her carmined lips. Her blue eyes were twinkling, as of old. There was a spirit of youth about Muriel that the frosts of fifty winters could not subdue. It triumphed over the ripe effulgence of her middle years. She looked well-groomed, however.
“How’s the birthday girl?” she cried. “Hello, Isabel!” Advancing to the hearthrug she kissed Jane warmly. “Feeling rather low, old speed?”
“Not at all,” said Jane falsely. “I like to be fifty.”
“I believe you,” said Muriel. “It’s a lovely age. ‘The last of life, for which the first was made!’ How poets do lie! Never mind, darling, you’ll feel better tomorrow. One gets used to everything!” She sank into an armchair and smiled up at Jane. “Here’s a present for you!”
Jane opened the little package. It contained a gold vanity case.
“Why, Muriel!” she cried. “How—how magnificent!”
“Use that lipstick,” said Muriel firmly. “Better and brighter lipsticks are the answer, Jane. No tea, darling! Such as it is, I’m trying to keep my figure! Do you see what I see, Jane? Is Isabel actually eating chocolate cake?”
“I certainly am,” said Isabel, a bit tartly.
“I can’t have eaten a piece of chocolate cake,” said Muriel meditatively, “for over fifteen years! But you eat it, Jane, and you don’t get fat at all. Neither does Flora. I saw her in Paris last spring, just stuffing down patisserie at Rumpelmayer’s, and she was a perfect thirty-six!”
“You’re looking very pretty today, Muriel,” said Isabel suddenly. Her tone was not that of idle compliment. Rather of acute appraisal. She had been watching Muriel intently since her triumphal entrance.
Muriel glanced quickly up at her. Jane heard her catch her breath in a little excited gasp.
“I—I’m feeling rather pretty,” she said surprisingly. “Do you know what I mean, girls—how you do sometimes feel pretty, from the inside out?”
Jane nodded solemnly. She understood. Though she herself had not felt pretty in just that way for years. Not since that last night when she had gone with Jimmy into the moonlit garden. It was such a happy, excited feeling. And it always told its story in your face. You only felt pretty, Jane reflected wisely, when you knew that someone else, whose opinion you cared about terribly, really thought you were.
“Muriel!” cried Isabel. “What’s the matter with you?”
Jane suddenly realized that Muriel was laughing. Laughing happily, excitedly, and yet a trifle shyly. There was something absurdly virginal about that happy, excited laughter. She clasped her gloved hands impulsively in a little confiding gesture that recalled to Jane’s memory the Muriel of Miss Milgrim’s School.
“Girls,” she said dramatically, “I’m going to marry Ed Brown on the first of June!”
“M-Muriel!” stammered Jane. She rose to her feet. She did not dare to look at Isabel.
“I’m—terribly happy,” said Muriel faintly. She had stopped laughing now. There were actually tears in her great blue eyes. Her carmined lips were trembling. The sudden display of emotion had curiously shattered the hard enamel of her brilliant, fading beauty. Jane took her in her arms. Muriel had never seemed more appealing. Jane felt terribly fond of her. She wanted to protect her from Isabel. From Isabel, who, quite unmoved, was still watching Muriel with that look of acute appraisal. Nevertheless, Jane, herself, could not suppress the thought that Muriel’s ample, corseted figure felt very solid, very mature in her eager embrace. She despised herself for the thought.
“Muriel,” she said, “I think it’s lovely.”
“I know I’m ridiculous,” said Muriel, withdrawing from her arms and fumbling for a handkerchief in her little grey bag. “But it’s terribly cheering to be really ridiculous again. I—I was never very
