At the foot of the stairs she met Flora’s mother. She was beautifully dressed in a dark green velvet gown, with leg-of-mutton sleeves of lighter green taffeta, and her little blond head was held very high and topped with a tortoiseshell comb, tipped sideways in her hair. She was running down the stairs very quickly, with her little tan pug behind her, and her cheeks were very pink and her eyes were very bright, and when she saw Jane she stopped and laughed as if she were just so happy she had to laugh at everyone.
“Hello, little Jane!” she said.
At the sound of her voice someone came out of the drawing-room. It was Mr. Bert Lancaster. He looked very tall and handsome, Jane thought. She didn’t wonder that Isabel liked to dance with him. His moustache was beautiful and he had a black pearl in his necktie. He walked at once up to Flora’s mother. He took her hand as if he liked to hold it. Flora’s mother looked happier than ever.
“This is little Jane Ward,” she said.
“Hello, little Jane Ward,” laughed Mr. Bert Lancaster. He, too, looked as if he were so happy that he had to laugh at everyone.
Flora’s mother stooped over and kissed Jane’s cheek. Her face felt very smooth and soft and it smelled of flowers. Mr. Bert Lancaster was watching her. Then she picked up the pug and held it tenderly in her arms and kissed the top of its little tan head and looked up at Mr. Lancaster over its black muzzle. They turned away from Jane toward the drawing-room door.
“I told you not to come ’til four,” said Flora’s mother, still smiling up at Mr. Lancaster over the pug. Jane couldn’t hear his reply.
“Silly!” said Flora’s mother, as he held the brocade portieres aside for her at the drawing-room door. She passed through them, looking over her shoulder at Mr. Lancaster. He followed her rustling train. Jane ran upstairs to Flora’s bedroom.
Flora’s bedroom was beautiful. All blue and white, with white-painted furniture and a little brass bed and real silver brushes and mirrors on her little dressing-table. Jane had no dressing-table. She kept a wooden brush and a celluloid comb and a steel nail file in her upper bureau drawer. Flora had two heart-shaped silver picture frames, too. In one was her mother, smiling over a feather fan in a lovely light evening gown, with pearls on her throat and long white gloves running up her arms to her great puffy sleeves. In the other frame was Flora’s father. He looked a little silly in that silver heart. Fat-faced and bald-headed and solemn. It was a very good picture, though. That was just the way he always looked, on the rare occasions when Jane ran into him in Flora’s hall.
Flora wasn’t doing much of anything. Jane explained that she had come to play in the yard. Flora said that was fine. Muriel was coming over and they could go out to the playhouse.
The playhouse was a tiny structure, out near the stable, the scene of all their childish frolics. They didn’t use it to play in now, of course, but Flora sometimes made candy on the little cooking-stove and she and Jane and Muriel always liked to talk there undisturbed.
“We’ll make fudge,” said Flora.
“Mamma wants me to be out-of-doors,” said Jane, still trying to make that lie come true.
“We’ll leave the windows open,” said Flora.
Jane decided that would be true enough. They ran down the back stairs and got some things from the cook and went out the side door by the lilac bushes. Muriel was just coming around the corner.
Jane began to feel much better as soon as she measured out the chocolate and sugar. She thought she could explain to André tomorrow morning. She thought he would understand. Mothers were mothers. You weren’t responsible for what they thought or what they made you do.
Flora’s fire began to burn almost immediately. The scent of cooking chocolate permeated the air. Muriel’s pink muslin had come from Hollander’s. It had real lace on the bertha. She was going to have some high-heeled slippers.
“Hello!” said Flora suddenly. “There’s André.”
There was André, indeed, loitering a little aimlessly by the iron fence. Muriel immediately began to giggle. Jane rushed to the playhouse door.
“Yoo-hoo, André!” she called ecstatically. “Come on over!”
He vaulted the fence at a bound. Jane ran out to meet him.
“Oh, André,” she said, “I’m terribly glad you came!”
He looked pleased, but he didn’t say anything.
“We’re making candy,” said Jane.
“André! Do you like fudge?” shrieked Flora from the doorway.
“You bet,” said André. Muriel went right on giggling. Jane walked with André into the playhouse. How good the chocolate smelled! Jane felt she liked fudge, as never before.
She told him all about it, an hour later. He was walking home with her down Erie Street, in the last red rays of the October sun. It was awfully hard to lead up to it. Suddenly she took the plunge.
“I—I’m afraid I can’t do Camille with you, André,” she said.
He stopped quite still on the pavement.
“Why not?” he asked.
Jane felt her cheeks growing very hot and red.
“Mamma—Mamma doesn’t want me to,” she said.
“Why not?” asked André again.
Jane looked miserably away from him.
“She—she doesn’t like the play.”
André looked extremely astonished.
“Why,” he said finally, “she—she must like it. Everyone likes Camille.”
“Mamma doesn’t,” said Jane. There it was. That was all there was to say.
“Do you mean to tell me,” said André hotly, “that she won’t let you do it?”
Jane nodded unhappily. André looked extremely puzzled.
“Well, then,” he said finally, “I guess you can’t.”
Jane’s heart leaped up with gratitude. He did understand. Mothers were mothers. But there was still the lie.
“André—” said Jane, and stopped.
“Yes?” said André. It was terribly difficult.
“André,” said Jane again and her voice was very low. She couldn’t look at him. “I—I didn’t tell you the truth, over the telephone.”
André didn’t say anything.
“Mamma didn’t say I had to
