She turned. A Verelst—that is to say one whose ancestry extended to the days when New York was a sleepy Dutch seaport—there were few here better born than she and, as she never mentioned the fact, there were few also that were better bred.
Now before her was a mirror that showed back the portrait of a woman beautiful, ardent, alert, alive.
It mocked her. Again she looked at the letter. It had come by post, just before luncheon, but it was not until afterward that she had read it. Meanwhile she had heard Fred telephoning to someone named Malvolio—no, Marvalho. But what about she did not know. She had heard but the name. Then at once, without a word to her, Fred had gone.
Fred was her husband. Usually he was less cavalier. Two years before he had lifted her quite off her feet. Delightedly then she had become the wife of this man whose charm, surviving the perils of matrimony, delighted her still.
But Fred Hemingway was always gracious, invariably serene. Never had she seen him angry—save once, a few evenings previous, when her brother and his wife were dining with them and the butler had been drunk. That might have annoyed anyone. It had annoyed her. But it had enraged Fred. Violently he had dismissed the man who had gone exuding abuse. Otherwise and to her, always he had been perfect, entirely unselfish and, for a husband, preeminently gallant.
Again she turned. The venom which the letter distilled was dulling her faith in him. As yet it had but smeared it. As yet she was but doubting, hesitating, uncertain how to act.
But uncertainty was rare with her. Ordinarily she knew what she wanted to do and did it. Now, mentally, she reviewed her list. It was long as her arm. On it was everybody who was anybody. But for the moment she saw but two to whom she could rightly turn—Harry, her brother, and Lilian, her brother’s wife. Lilian was so dear that she might have been really her sister except that they never quarreled.
Presently, in that region just beyond the Plaza which is Manhattan’s Mayfair, Claire was at her brother’s door.
The footman who then appeared was properly sorry but Mrs. Verelst was out.
“And my brother?” Claire asked.
“There he is now, mem.”
Behind her, at the curb, a motor had stopped and from it a man in clothes that were obviously Savile Row, was alighting. He waved at Claire. A moment and he was in the hall.
“A letter for you, sir,” the footman announced.
But Claire was also speaking. “Harry, where is Lilian?”
Harry, pocketing the letter with one hand, removed his hat with the other. “God knows! Shopping, I suppose. Calling. Great heavens, the way you women amuse yourselves!”
About him was an odour of champagne and Turkish tobacco. He was not squiffy exactly, but he had perhaps been doing himself rather well. Claire did not notice and animatedly he ran on:
“I never make calls. I loathe shops. Though, to be sure, shops now have their uses. Tomorrow is my birthday. What are you to give me? But come in here.”
Lifting a portiere, he moved aside. Then, following his sister, he entered a room, long, wide, bright, fitted in Empire fashion. Near a table was a sofa on which he dropped. Opposite stood a chair which Claire approached.
Harry patted his tie. “I have been lunching down town. You’ll never believe it, but even there they are turkey-trotting. New York has gone crazy. Crazy!”
For a little yet he rambled. Claire had seated herself. Absently she was considering her gown. Astonishingly simple, it must have been equally dear.
Her inattention arrested him. “What’s wrong?”
Claire raised her great eyes. “I have had an anonymous letter. It’s about Fred. You can imagine the contents.”
Harry sat up. “And you came to tell Lilian about it?”
“Yes, Lilian or you. I don’t know how to act.”
Harry nodded. “Then I’ll tell you. Forget it. People of our sort never see or hear anything that was not intended for them.”
Claire nodded also, not at him but at the remark. It was an old friend—an old enemy rather. Since childhood it had been dinned into her.
“Possibly,” she replied. “But unfortunately this was intended for me.”
He caught her up. “Not by Fred, though. Does the letter say who the lady is?”
Claire shook her head.
“Have you told Fred?”
“No.”
“Then don’t. Above all, no sobs. No little scenes.”
“Harry! I am not the sobbing kind.”
“Then don’t be the jealous kind, either. Jealousy—well, jealousy always denotes a sense of inferiority. That’s it. A sense of inferiority. Don’t show any.”
“And act toward Fred as though—Oh!”
“Yes, why not? There is nothing a man appreciates more. A woman who suspects and screams is to be avoided. The woman who smiles and says nothing is adored. Fred probably thinks you an angel. Act as I say and he will find you are a saint.”
“But I am nothing of the kind,” Claire angrily protested. “I don’t want to be either. I am flesh and blood and I won’t permit—”
“There, there!” Harry grandly threw in. “Assume a virtue though you have it not. In the Gospel of Matrimony it is written—or should be—Blessed are they that ignore, for theirs is the Kingdom of Love.”
“Don’t!” Claire cried. It was protection she wanted, not platitude. “Can’t you see that if there is a word of truth in this I shall leave him?”
“Nonsense,” Harry, much as though she were a child, replied. “You have to consider—”
But Claire’s great eyes had narrowed. “What I have to consider is my self-respect.”
“Self-respect!” he repeated. The expression seemed to amuse him. “But what in the world is that but egotism? It is rank selfishness to make a scandal. Why, at the mere thought of such a thing your grandmother would turn out of her grave.”
“Don’t,” Claire again protested. “If Lilian were to get such
