“I can’t see that it makes much difference what you call things, Aunt Isabel,” said Cicily cheerfully. “You and Mother certainly didn’t believe in it and I don’t either. It isn’t practical and it’s terribly complicated. I believe in monogamy.”
“You reassure me, darling,” murmured Jane, with a smile.
“I believe,” continued Cicily stoutly, “that when a married woman falls in love, she ought to march straight to the divorce court and make everything regular.”
“Oh,” said Jane, still with the smile, “progressive monogamy.”
“Exactly,” said Cicily. Then added wisely, “No woman is ever really happy trying to live with two men at once. And no woman is ever really happy without her marriage lines.”
“No woman is eventually happy,” said Jane rather solemnly, “if she doesn’t play the game with the cards that were dealt her.”
“Why?” said Cicily promptly. “Not all games are like that. I think life’s very like poker. You look over your hand and keep what you like, and what you don’t, you discard. Throw away your Jack, you know, and hope for a king!”
Cicily was smiling a little over her play on words. It was an innocent little joke, of course, but Jane was very thankful that Isabel had not noticed it.
“And if you draw a deuce?” she said soberly.
“Have faith in the future,” said Cicily lightly, “and keep your poker face. There’s always a new deal.”
“You talk,” said Jane severely, “as if a woman had nine lives like a cat.”
“She could have,” said Cicily, “if she had vision and courage.”
“Vision!” cried Jane. “What takes vision is to recognize the imperial qualities in the cards in your hand! What takes courage is to win the pot with a deuce spot!”
“I call that bluffing,” said Cicily, cheerfully. “You fool the world, but you don’t fool yourself. You may win the pot, but it’s not worth the winning. What’s fun is a game with a handful of face cards!”
For the last few minutes Isabel had not been listening to her argumentative daughter-in-law. Her next remark betrayed the fact that her thoughts had been wandering.
“Belle’s coming back for the wedding,” she said.
“Really?” cried Cicily. Her face lit up at the thought. “Oh, I’ll love to see Belle again! Is she bringing the children?”
Isabel nodded cheerfully.
“What fun!” cried Cicily. “What fun for all of us!”
It would be fun for all of them, Jane reflected, as she stood at the front door with Isabel an hour later and watched Cicily, attended by her cavalcade of children, disappear around the bushes at the entrance of the drive. The twins were trying to roller-skate, with a signal lack of success, on the gravel walk. The air resounded with their shrieks of triumph and emulation. Cicily was pushing an empty go-cart and guiding Robin Redbreast’s faltering footsteps with a maternal hand. At the turn of the path she paused to wave gaily back at the two grandmothers.
“Cicily’s a good mother,” said Isabel approvingly.
“She adores the children,” said Jane. “You know, Isabel,” she added slowly, “modern young people don’t mean all they say.”
“I don’t listen much to what Cicily says,” said Isabel. “But what I catch sounds very wild.”
“Their talk is wild,” said Jane. “But their lives are just as tame as ours were.”
“Except for the drink,” said Isabel.
“The drink, of course,” said Jane. “But Cicily never takes too much.”
“I’ve seen her pretty gay at the Casino,” said Isabel. Then added honestly, “But Jack was, too.”
“They all get pretty gay,” said Jane, “but the nice ones don’t get really tight. Not very tight, that is.”
“You don’t have to get very tight to be pretty loose!” said Isabel. She beckoned for her car as she spoke. It was waiting by the service entrance. “But I think you’re right. They don’t mean a thing by it.”
The motor drove slowly up to the front door. Isabel climbed into it.
“Goodbye, birthday child!” she cried, as it started into motion. She was waving cheerfully through the open window. “I can’t wait to tell Robin about Muriel.”
The car moved slowly down the drive. Jane lingered a moment on her doorstep looking after it in the pleasant May sunshine. Her thoughts were still busy with Cicily’s wild talk. To Jane, Cicily seemed barely out of the nursery. She looked barely out of the nursery with her dandelion head and her short slim skirts and her silly silky little legs! She might have been pushing her doll’s carriage down that drive! She shouldn’t be playing with thoughts like that, though. Edged tools in the hands of a child.
Jane turned on her doorstep and walked slowly back into the living-room to ring for the waitress to remove the ravaged tea-tray. She sank down in Stephen’s armchair. Of course the silly child did not mean a word that she had been saying. Good women talked differently in different generations but they always acted the same.
But did they? Women—good women—were getting divorced every day. Just as girls—good girls—were getting, well—gay, every night. In Jane’s mother’s time a girl who got drunk, a woman who was divorced, was an outcast, a public scandal, a skeleton in a family closet. In her time and Isabel’s she was a deplorable curiosity—more to be pitied than censured, perhaps, but always to be deplored. Now Cicily regarded intoxication as an incidental accident, dependent on the quality of bootlegged liquor that was served at a party. She regarded divorce as a practical aid to monogamous living.
When Stephen and young Steve came in from the five-fifty half an hour later, Jane was still sitting in the armchair.
“Jane?” called Stephen, from the front door. Before taking off his overcoat he came into the living-room to give her another birthday kiss. “What are you thinking about?” he inquired, “all alone by the fire.”
“It’s a godless age,” said Jane promptly.
Young Steve grinned pleasantly at her from the threshold.
“What have we done now?” he inquired cheerfully.
“It’s what you don’t do,” said Jane. “Or rather what you don’t think—what you don’t feel.”
“What’s that got to do
