“I must go up and dress for dinner,” said Jane, rising suddenly. “Here’s the newspaper if you’d like to read it until I come down.”
“Are you glad I came?” The question arrested her abruptly in the doorway. Curiously enough, Jane was not quite sure. But—
“Very glad,” said Jane evenly. She mounted the staircase rather slowly. She wasn’t quite sure about the gladness. Nevertheless, she was inexplicably determined to look her best that evening. She would put on that red Poiret tea-gown she had so foolishly bought at a bargain sale last June. She had often regretted that folly. What use had Jane at Lakewood or Gull Rocks for a red Poiret tea-gown?
“Miss Parrot,” said Jane, pausing in the playroom doorway, “I want Steve to wear his blue suit this evening. And tell Cicily and Jenny, please, to put on their new yellow smocks.” On entering her bedroom she rang for the waitress.
“Sarah,” she said, “Mr. Carver will not be home for dinner, but Mr. Trent will stay. We’ll have cocktails. And some of the good sauterne at table. And creme de menthe, please, after the coffee. Be sure and see that the ice is cracked fine. You can pound it in a towel. It ought to be almost pulverized.”
Jane walked slowly to her closet and took out the red tea-gown. Jimmy was something different at Lakewood. Still, she wasn’t quite sure about the gladness. She wished that Agnes were downstairs with him. When Jane realized how much she wished that, she felt better about the gladness. She was even willing to admit to herself how very glad she was.
II
“Let’s play parcheesi,” said little Steve.
“I have to telephone Aunt Isabel,” said Cicily.
“I haven’t done my practising,” said Jenny.
They were all sitting around the living-room fire. Jane was presiding over the little silver coffee service on the table at her knee. Sarah was passing the creme de menthe. The little cut-glass goblets, filled with vivid green liquid, looked very festive and frivolous, on the small silver tray. Jimmy grasped his with a sigh of satisfaction. Miss Parrot took hers with the deprecatory gesture of every trained nurse accepting an alcoholic beverage. Jane sipped hers with the comforting realization that the ice was perfectly pulverized.
“Do you like parcheesi?” said little Steve to Jimmy.
“I love it,” said Jimmy, “but I hurt my finger yesterday and I’m afraid I couldn’t throw the dice.”
“Anyway,” said Jenny, “I have to practise.”
“Not tonight,” said Jimmy cheerfully. “Day before yesterday I hurt my ear and sudden noises pain it dreadfully.”
Jenny and Cicily and Miss Parrot all laughed uproariously at his nonsense.
“Well,” said Cicily, “I do have to telephone Aunt Isabel.”
“That’s a fine idea,” said Jimmy approvingly. “And Miss Parrot looks to me like a perfect parcheesi fan. I think it would be very nice, Cicily, if Steve got the board all ready in another room so that, when you had finished telephoning your aunt, you and she and Jenny and Steve could all play parcheesi together, while your mother sat here in the firelight and told me what to do for my finger and my ear.”
Miss Parrot, having finished her creme de menthe, rose with a smile. She was obviously quite captivated by Jimmy.
“Come up to the playroom, children,” she said. “I’ll play parcheesi with you.”
“And don’t I have to practise?” asked Jenny jubilantly.
“Not if Mr. Trent’s ear is hurting him,” smiled Jane.
Jenny threw Jimmy a grateful smile. Steve dragged Miss Parrot from the room. Cicily followed with Jenny.
“I can’t believe,” said Jimmy, as he lit a cigarette, “that those great children are yours.”
“They are,” said Jane briefly.
“Cicily’s a perfect heartbreaker,” said Jimmy.
“I’m afraid she will be,” said Jane.
“Why ‘afraid’?” asked Jimmy.
“I don’t think breaking hearts is a very rewarding occupation,” said Jane.
“Oh—someone else can always mend them,” said Jimmy lightly. He twinkled across at her, through a blue streak of cigarette smoke. “You know that, don’t you, Jane?”
“I’ve never broken any hearts,” said Jane, smiling. “So really I don’t.”
“Well—experience is the best teacher,” said Jimmy affably.
Sarah reentered the room to remove the coffee tray. She picked up the cups and the little cut-glass goblets with the silent efficiency of the perfect servant and retired noiselessly into the hall.
“It moves on greased wheels, doesn’t it, Jane?” said Jimmy.
“What does?” asked Jane.
“Your life,” said Jimmy.
“Yes,” said Jane. “But I grease them.”
“I suppose you do,” said Jimmy. “But you don’t mind it, do you?”
“I get awfully sick of it,” said Jane honestly.
Jimmy watched her for a moment in silence behind the cigarette smoke.
“Sick of what?” he said presently.
“Sick,” said Jane earnestly, “of greasing wheels. Sick of running the house and bossing the servants and dressing the children. Sick of seeing that everything looks pretty and everything goes right. Sick of seeing that the living-room is dusted before ten every morning and that dinner is served on the stroke of seven every night. Sometimes I wonder what’s the use of it all. Sometimes I wish that Stephen and I could just tear up our roots and buy a couple of knapsacks and put the children in a covered wagon and start out to see the world. Just wander, you know, for a year or two. Wander everywhere, before we’re too old to do it. Not bother about anything. Not care. Not do anything we didn’t really want to. I suppose you think I’m crazy!” She broke off abruptly.
“Crazy?” said Jimmy. “I think you’re just right. There’s a lot of the nomad in me, you know. I guess the tent got into my blood. If I’d been born a gypsy instead of a Methodist
