The cab turned the corner that always made her remember André’s last smile. She could still see his tall, slender figure, walking, furiously fast, up Pine Street. But she had grown accustomed, now, to missing André. The first fall days, that always made her feel that school should be beginning, had brought him to mind at every turn. She had planned to go to see his mother just as soon as she was sure that she was back from her summer in France. Mrs. Duroy would tell her all about him.
She had mentioned that projected visit a little diffidently to her father. She had not seen Mrs. Duroy since the night of the bicycle picnic. Two years ago and more. Her father had looked at her very kindly.
“They’ve gone, Jane,” he said gently.
“Gone?” she had echoed faintly.
“He was called back to Europe. Stationed in Prague, now, I think. They left last winter, soon after Christmas.”
So that was that.
“Papa,” Jane had said, rather hesitantly, “do—do you know anything about André?”
“Not a thing, kid. Haven’t heard of him since he left.”
“I—I wish I could have seen his mother,” Jane had said miserably, “before she went away.” Her father patted her hand. There was nothing to say. Prague. Jane wasn’t even quite sure what country it was in. She kept thinking of André in Prague. Or Paris.
She kept thinking, too, of Agnes and Marion, and of what they were doing, each hour of the day, on the green October campus. It was very easy to imagine that, for the Bryn Mawr days were marked off meticulously hour by hour, with a fixed, unchanging programme. A quarter to nine—chapel was assembling. Miss Thomas was entering the rostrum. The choir was tuning up. The Quaker prayer was begun. Ten minutes past nine—Agnes was settling down for her Greek lecture. Ten—Marion was entering Major Latin. Twelve—the English professor was ascending the stairs. One—Pembroke dining-room was a babel of tongues. Four—Agnes was getting out the teakettle. Five—they were running down the Gulf Road for a brisk walk before supper. Jane could almost hear Taylor clock striking off the hours.
It was nearly four now. Nearly five in Bryn Mawr. Agnes and Marion were washing up the tea-things that very minute. They were laughing about something, of course. Something funny that Agnes would have said. Jane forgot them, however, at the sight of Muriel’s awning. It was her first big party. Next week she would have an awning of her own.
The doorman, resplendent in maroon broadcloth and brass buttons, flung open the cab door with a flourish. Jane followed her mother and Isabel up the red velvet carpet. She remembered, just in time, to pick up her pink taffeta train.
The Lesters’ big house was in very festive array. There were palms from the florist’s and flowers everywhere. Great gold and russet bunches of chrysanthemums and roses of every kind and colour. The front hall smelled faintly like a greenhouse. A line of caterer’s men bowed them up the stairs. They were very early, which was quite as it should be. Janet’s place was awaiting her behind the great silver teakettle in the dining-room.
Jane flung off her wrap in the lacy splendour of the Lesters’ guestroom. A waiting-maid seized it as it fell. She folded it meticulously and laid it on the bed. Jane looked in the long glass. So, she had a style of her own, she thought. Isabel had said so, and Isabel knew. Jane couldn’t see it, however. But her gown was very pretty and her waist was very small and her cheeks were pink with excitement behind her sheer white face veil. She ran down the stairs ahead of her mother.
The four Lesters were standing ceremoniously at the parlour door. The room seemed very bare and strangely neat, with all the furniture pushed back against the walls, and all the ornaments removed to make way for the magnificent flowers. Mrs. Lester looked perfectly enormous in purple satin. Muriel, at her side, incredibly angelic, in white lace. Her hair was a black cloud. Her eyes were very bright and blue, dancing with pleasure. She carried a great bunch of white sweet peas. She flung her arms around Jane excitedly. Edith, imported from Cleveland, was next in line. Jane hadn’t seen her for nearly three years. She looked a lot older, Jane thought, and rather tired. Rosalie was chattering to the last guest, a funny old lady in a satin cape. Freddy Waters and the Cleveland brother-in-law were talking together near the front window. With their sleek blond heads and their black frock coats and their dove-coloured neckties they looked as much alike as the two Dromios.
Jane passed down the line and stood a moment, uncertainly, in the empty room. She didn’t know the old lady and she never knew what to say to Freddy Waters. She hadn’t seen the Cleveland brother-in-law since his wedding day, four years before. She wandered a bit uneasily toward the dining-room door. There was Flora behind the chocolate pot. Flora, very fair and frail, looking like a little Dresden shepherdess in pale blue silk. Jane took her place at the other end of the table. An obsequious caterer’s man hovered behind her chair. Or perhaps he was the new butler. Jane couldn’t remember. Some people that she didn’t know were standing around the table, plates in hand. She was too far away from Flora to talk. She could hardly see her over the great orchid centrepiece.
Somebody asked for some tea. Jane poured it out in silence. More people were coming into the room. Jane didn’t know any of them. Lots of them wanted tea. Jane was kept quite busy. She could hear Flora chattering away at her end of the table. Flora knew ever so many people. Some men came in. Quite old ones. They gravitated around Flora. She seemed to have lots
