“It must have been awful,” said Isabel, “falling over like that, right into his own champagne glass, in the middle of a speech.”
“They say he was forbidden champagne,” said Mrs. Ward. “Dr. Bancroft’s wife told me that the doctor had warned him last winter that he must give up alcohol.”
“Have some more tea, Isabel,” said Jane.
“I oughtn’t to, but I will,” said Isabel. At forty-one Isabel was valiantly struggling against increasing pounds. “No sugar, Jane.” She opened her purse and taking out a small bottle dropped three tablets of saccharine into her cup.
“Of course he’s pretty young for a stroke,” said Mrs. Ward.
“He’s fifty-five,” said Isabel. “He was fifty-five the third of August.”
“It’s frightful for Muriel,” said Jane.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Ward. “Perhaps it’s providential. Of course if he’s disabled—”
“If he lives, he will be,” said Isabel. “Sooner or later. If you have one stroke, you always have another.”
“Well, he may not live,” said Mrs. Ward. “He can’t have any constitution to rely on after the life he’s led.”
“What do you think Muriel would do, Jane?” asked Isabel. “Do you think she’d really marry Cyril Fortune?”
“I don’t know,” said Jane.
“She was off at the Scandals with him when it happened,” said Mrs. Ward. “They paged her at the theatre.”
“You mark my words,” said Isabel, taking a piece of toast and scraping the buttered cinnamon off it, “whenever Bert Lancaster dies, Muriel will marry the man of the moment the day after the funeral. Not that I think she’s really in love with Cyril. I never thought she was in love with Sam or Binky or Roger or any of them.”
“Not even with Sam?” said Mrs. Ward.
“Not really,” said Isabel with conviction. “Rosalie always said she wasn’t. I think Muriel is really just in love with herself. It keeps up her self-confidence to have a young man sighing gustily around the home. But just the same, if Bert Lancaster dies tonight, I bet she marries Cyril Fortune before Christmas.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Ward. “Muriel would do everything decently. She’d stay in mourning for at least a year. She’d have to show the proper respect for her son’s sake.”
“They’ve sent for young Albert,” said Isabel, “to come home from Saint Paul’s.”
“Well, I hope Muriel behaves herself while he’s here,” said Mrs. Ward severely. “He’s fifteen and he’s old enough to notice.”
“That’s just exactly,” said Isabel dreamily, “what you used to say of Flora.”
“Well, she was old enough to notice,” said Mrs. Ward, “but I doubt if she ever did. Lily Furness had a curious magnetism. Somehow she always made you believe the best of her.”
“Flora simply adored her,” said Jane suddenly. “I adored her, myself.”
“Just the same,” said Mrs. Ward, “she had no principle.”
“You don’t know,” said Jane. “Perhaps she went through hell. You can’t help it if you’re not in love with your husband.”
“Every wife with principle,” said Mrs. Ward firmly, “is in love with her husband.”
“Mamma!” cried Isabel. “Don’t be ridiculous! How many wives are? But what I say is, even if you’re not, you don’t have to take a lover—”
“No,” said Jane, “of course you don’t. But I can see how you might.”
“Don’t talk like that!” said Mrs. Ward sharply. “I don’t know where you girls get your ideas! When I was your age I wouldn’t even have said those words—‘take a lover’! And you two sit there talking as if it were actually done!”
“But it is done, Mamma,” said Isabel. “Not very often, of course, but sometimes. Lily Furness did it, even in your day. And you know, in your black heart, that you’re wondering whether Muriel hasn’t gone and done it in ours.”
“I am not!” said Mrs. Ward indignantly. “I shouldn’t think of making such an accusation against Muriel. All I say is, she isn’t very discreet. She gets herself talked about. There’s been a lot of gossip about Muriel. And everyone knows that where there’s so much smoke, there’s bound to be some fire.”
“Well, what do you think you’re saying now?” said Isabel. “What are, or aren’t you, accusing Muriel of this minute?”
Mrs. Ward looked slightly bewildered.
“I don’t like the way young people speak out nowadays,” she said. “And I don’t like your attitude toward wrongdoing. You and Jane are both perfectly willing to condone whatever Muriel has done. At least, in my day, we all made Lily Furness feel she was a guilty woman. We took the marriage vows seriously.”
“I take the marriage vows seriously. Mamma,” said Jane gently. “But I can understand the people who break them. At least,” she added doubtfully, “I think I can. I think I can understand just how it might happen.”
“Anyone could understand how it might happen in Muriel’s case,” said Isabel. “Bert’s a perfect old rip. There’s a certain poetic justice in the thought of him, standing in Mr. Furness’s shoes—”
Mrs. Ward rose with dignity from her chair.
“Come, Isabel,” she said, “I’m going home. I’m not going to listen to you girls any longer. I only hope you don’t talk like this before Robin and Stephen. It’s a woman’s duty to keep up her husband’s standards.”
Jane and Isabel burst into laughter.
“Robin and Stephen!” exclaimed Isabel. “Imagine either of them on the loose!”
“They keep up our standards,” said Jane, as she kissed her mother. Mrs. Ward still looked a trifle bewildered.
“Put on your heavy coat,” said Jane, as they all turned toward the door. “Don’t let her catch cold, Isabel.”
“I won’t,” said Isabel. “Mind that rug, Mamma. The floor is slippery.”
“You girls think I’m just an old lady,” said Mrs. Ward, as Jane opened the front door. “I wish you’d both remember that I took care of myself for about forty-five years before you thought you were old enough to give me advice.” She climbed, a little clumsily, into the waiting motor.
“Give my love to Papa,” said Jane. “And Isabel—when you telephone Rosalie, ask if there’s anything
