The Younger Set. Chambers Robert William
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as dreadful as the chorus," he remarked, wincing.
"You're exactly like a bad small boy, Captain Selwyn; you look like one now—so sheepish! I've seen Gerald attempt to avoid admonition in exactly that fashion."
"How about a jolly brisk walk?" he inquired blandly; "unless you've something on. I suppose you have."
"Yes, I have; a tea at the Fanes, a function at the Grays. . . . Do you know Sudbury Gray? It's his mother."
They had strolled into the living room—a big, square, sunny place, in golden greens and browns, where a bay-window overlooked the Park.
Kneeling on the cushions of the deep window seat she flattened her delicate nose against the glass, peering out through the lace hangings.
"Everybody and his family are driving," she said over her shoulder. "The rich and great are cornering the fresh-air supply. It's interesting, isn't it, merely to sit here and count coteries! There is Mrs. Vendenning and Gladys Orchil of the Black Fells set; there is that pretty Mrs. Delmour-Carnes; Newport! Here come some Cedarhurst people—the Fleetwoods. It always surprises one to see them out of the saddle. There is Evelyn Cardwell; she came out when I did; and there comes Sandon Craig with a very old lady—there, in that old-fashioned coach—oh, it is Mrs. Jan Van Elten, senior. What a very, very quaint old lady! I have been presented at court," she added, with a little laugh, "and now all the law has been fulfilled."
For a while she kneeled there, silently intent on the passing pageant with all the unconscious curiosity of a child. Presently, without turning: "They speak of the younger set—but what is its limit? So many, so many people! The hunting crowd—the silly crowd—the wealthy sets—the dreadful yellow set—then all those others made out of metals—copper and coal and iron and—" She shrugged her youthful shoulders, still intent on the passing show.
"Then there are the intellectuals—the artistic, the illuminated, the musical sorts. I—I wish I knew more of them. They were my father's friends—some of them." She looked over her shoulder to see where Selwyn was, and whether he was listening; smiled at him, and turned, resting one hand on the window seat. "So many kinds of people," she said, with a shrug.
"Yes," said Selwyn lazily, "there are all kinds of kinds. You remember that beautiful nature-poem:
"'The sea-gull
And the eagul
And the dipper-dapper-duck
And the Jew-fish
And the blue-fish
And the turtle in the muck;
And the squir'l
And the girl
And the flippy floppy bat
Are differ-ent
As gent from gent.
So let it go at that!'"
"What hideous nonsense," she laughed, in open encouragement; but he could recall nothing more—or pretended he couldn't.
"You asked me," he said, "whether I know Sudbury Gray. I do, slightly. What about him?" And he waited, remembering Nina's suggestion as to that wealthy young man's eligibility.
"He's one of the nicest men I know," she replied frankly.
"Yes, but you don't know 'Boots' Lansing."
"The gentleman who was bucked out of his footwear? Is he attractive?"
"Rather. Shrieks rent the air when 'Boots' left Manila."
"Feminine shrieks?"
"Exclusively. The men were glad enough. He has three months' leave this winter, so you'll see him soon."
She thanked him mockingly for the promise, watching him from amused eyes. After a moment she said:
"I ought to arise and go forth with timbrels and with dances; but, do you know, I am not inclined to revels? There has been a little—just a very little bit too much festivity so far. . . . Not that I don't adore dinners and gossip and dances; not that I do not love to pervade bright and glittering places. Oh, no. Only—I—"
She looked shyly a moment at Selwyn: "I sometimes feel a curious desire for other things. I have been feeling it all day."
"What things?"
"I—don't know—exactly; substantial things. I'd like to learn about things. My father was the head of the American School of Archæology in Crete. My mother was his intellectual equal, I believe—"
Her voice had fallen as she spoke. "Do you wonder that physical pleasure palls a little at times? I inherit something besides a capacity for dancing."
He nodded, watching her with an interest and curiosity totally new.
"When I was ten years old I was taken abroad for the winter. I saw the excavations in Crete for the buried city which father discovered near Præsos. We lived for a while with Professor Flanders in the Fayum district; I saw the ruins of Kahun, built nearly three thousand years before the coming of Christ; I myself picked up a scarab as old as the ruins! . . . Captain Selwyn—I was only a child of ten; I could understand very little of what I saw and heard, but I have never, never forgotten the happiness of that winter! . . . And that is why, at times, pleasures tire me a little; and a little discontent creeps in. It is ungrateful and ungracious of me to say so, but I did wish so much to go to college—to have something to care for—as mother cared for father's work. Why, do you know that my mother accidentally discovered the thirty-seventh sign in the Karian Signary?"
"No," said Selwyn, "I did not know that." He forbore to add that he did not know what a Signary resembled or where Karia might be.
Miss Erroll's elbow was on her knee, her chin resting within her open palm.
"Do you know about my parents?" she asked. "They were lost in the Argolis off Cyprus. You have heard. I think they meant that I should go to college—as well as Gerald; I don't know. Perhaps after all it is better for me to do what other young girls do. Besides, I enjoy it; and my mother did, too, when she was my age, they say. She was very much gayer than I am; my mother was a beauty and a brilliant woman. . . . But there were other qualities. I—have her letters to father when Gerald and I were very little; and her letters to us from London. . . . I have missed her more, this winter, it seems to me, than even in that dreadful time—"
She sat silent, chin in hand, delicate fingers restlessly worrying her red lips; then, in quick impulse:
"You will not mistake me, Captain Selwyn! Nina and Austin have been perfectly sweet to me and to Gerald."
"I am not mistaking a word you utter," he said.
"No, of course not. . . . Only there are times . . . moments . . ."
Her voice died; her clear eyes looked out into space while the silent seconds lengthened into minutes. One slender finger had slipped between her lips and teeth; the burnished strand of hair which Nina dreaded lay neglected against her cheek.
"I should like to know," she began, as though to herself, "something about everything. That being out of the question, I should like to know everything about something. That also being out of the question, for third choice I should like to know something about something. I am not too ambitious, am I?"
Selwyn did not offer to answer.
"Am I?" she repeated, looking directly at him.
"I thought you were asking yourself."
"But you need not reply; there is no sense in my question."
She stood up, indifferent, absent-eyed, half turning toward the window; and, raising her hand, she carelessly brought the rebel strand of hair under discipline.
"You said you were going to look up Gerald," she observed.
"I am; now. What are you going to do?"
"I? Oh, dress, I suppose. Nina ought to be back now, and she expects me to go out with her."
She nodded a smiling termination of their duet, and moved toward the door. Then, on impulse, she turned, a question on her lips—left unuttered