“Bert Lancaster?” echoed Jane. “What about them?”
“Rosalie says he’s crazy about her.”
“Isabel!” cried Jane. “That old man!”
“He’s not forty,” said Isabel. “I don’t believe he’s more than thirty-eight.”
Jane slipped out of her skirt and turned toward her closet door.
“He sends her flowers,” said Isabel, “three times a week.”
“Everyone,” said Jane, “sends Muriel flowers.”
“He’s over there,” said Isabel, “all the time.”
“Great for Muriel,” said Jane laconically. Then, emerging from the closet, “Here’s my new dress.”
“It’s lovely,” said Isabel. Jane thought it was too. Pink taffeta with ecru lace revers over the enormous sleeves. “You’ll look sweet.”
Jane walked over to the walnut bureau and began to take down her hair.
“Mrs. Lester,” said Isabel, “doesn’t like it a bit.”
“Why, she hasn’t seen it!” cried Jane indignantly. No one could help liking that pink taffeta dress. It was ordered for Muriel’s début.
“Not the dress, goose!” laughed Isabel. “Bert.”
“Oh!” said Jane, immensely relieved.
“Rosalie says she can’t do a thing with Muriel,” said Isabel. “Of course she never could.”
“Do you think I ought to curl my hair?” asked Jane anxiously. “I suppose I could learn—”
Isabel regarded her very seriously, her head on one side.
“N-no,” she said slowly. “I like it straight.”
“You’ve got a certain style, Jane, all your own.”
That was the first time that Jane had ever heard that. She flushed with pleasure.
“I shouldn’t think she would like it,” resumed Isabel. “Robin says Bert’s been awfully fast.”
“Ready, Jane?” It was her mother’s voice. Mrs. Ward stood in the doorway. She looked very pretty in her violet gown with her little black lace shoulder cape and violet bonnet. “Who opened the window?” Mrs. Ward promptly shut it and walked over to the bed to feel the baby’s feet solicitously, with a reproving glance at Isabel.
“Hook me up,” said Jane, backing down on her sister just in time to prevent an outburst of protest.
“What were you saying,” asked Mrs. Ward, “that Robin said about Bert?” The baby was forgotten. Isabel faced her mother over Jane’s shoulder with a kindling eye. Jane could see her in the mirror.
“Robin says,” she began eagerly, “that Bert has always gone an awful pace. And Rosalie says that Freddy thinks it’s dreadful of her mother to let Muriel have anything to do with him.”
“It would certainly be very awkward,” mused Jane’s mother, “if it should come to anything. Considering Muriel’s friendship with Flora.”
“I don’t think Flora has ever noticed a thing,” said Isabel. “Do you, Jane?”
“Did she ever mention it?” asked Jane’s mother.
“No,” said Jane, and took her new hat out of the hatbox.
“Lily Furness is a fool,” said Mrs. Ward, “but in a way she’s clever. I dare say she’d be very careful.”
“She’s not very careful now,” said Isabel. “She looks like the wrath of heaven.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Ward with dignity, “why she hasn’t more pride.”
“You never see him there any more,” said Isabel. “You don’t ever see him, do you, Jane?”
Jane was putting on her hat before the mirror. It was a very pretty hat with a big pink taffeta bow standing high in the back. Jane adjusted her white face veil, making little mouths at herself in the glass as she drew it down tightly over her chin.
“Why, no,” she said slowly, “I—I haven’t—lately.”
“It would be sad,” said Jane’s mother, shaking her head, “if it weren’t so silly.”
“It’s certainly silly,” said Isabel, laughing. “Giving yourself away like that over a man who’s running around after your daughter’s best friend—”
Jane turned suddenly to face them. Her eyes were snapping with anger.
“I don’t think it’s silly at all,” she said abruptly. If it’s true, I think it’s tragic. I like Flora’s mother. She’s always been lovely to me. And she’s always been perfectly beautiful. She is still. If—if Bert Lancaster ever—ever loved her and—and got over it, I think he’s the one that’s silly. Chasing after Muriel Lester who’s young enough to be his own daughter! I think it’s dreadful for people to get over loving—”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” said Jane’s mother icily, “that Flora’s mother is a married woman?”
Jane felt suddenly deflated. And a little unequal to coping with the complications the situation presented. But she stood by her guns.
“I don’t care if she is,” she said stoutly. “She’s no more married now than she was when it began. Anyway, I think it’s her own business,” She caught up her wrap from the bed and stooped to kiss the baby. “Isabel, he is cute. I’m ready, now.”
“You look very well,” said her mother.
In the hall they met Minnie, coming up all smiles to play nursemaid. Isabel lingered to speak to her for a moment. Mrs. Ward was on the stairs.
“You can open the east window,” Jane heard Isabel murmur. Then her mother’s voice rang out from the lower hall.
“Come on, girls! The cab’s at the door.”
II
The November air felt very cool and bracing as they stood on the front steps. It was very luxurious, Jane thought, to be driving over to Muriel’s in a cab when it was only four blocks away. Everything at home seemed luxurious, after Bryn Mawr. It really wasn’t nearly as bad as she had thought it was going to be. It was fun to be with her father again. He had given her a new desk and a bookcase to hold all her Bryn Mawr books. Her mother had had her room repapered. It was very exciting to buy all the new clothes and to feel herself, for once, the central figure on the little family stage. Even Isabel seemed to think that nothing was too good for her. Hats and frocks and shoes and stockings were arriving every day, regardless of expense. Jane was a little appalled at the outlay, but everyone else seemed to take it completely for granted. Jane was a débutante. She had to have things. Her mother had even ordered her some new calling cards, though the old ones were not half used up. “Miss Ward,” they said, with the
