Alice Adams. Booth Tarkington
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grinning at the window as it went by. “Flivver runabout got the wrong number!” he said.
“Did he SEE us?” Alice cried.
“Did who see us?”
“Harvey Malone—in that foreign coupe.”
“No; he couldn't tell who we were under this top,” Walter assured her as he brought the little car to a standstill beside the curbstone, out in the street. “What's it matter if he did, the big fish?”
Alice responded with a loud sigh, and sat still.
“Well, want to go on back?” Walter inquired. “You bet I'm willing!”
“No.”
“Well, then, what's the matter our drivin' on up to the porte-cochere? There's room for me to park just the other side of it.”
“No, NO!”
“What you expect to do? Sit HERE all night?”
“No, leave the car here.”
“I don't care where we leave it,” he said. “Sit still till I lock her, so none o' these millionaires around here'll run off with her.” He got out with a padlock and chain; and, having put these in place, offered Alice his hand. “Come on, if you're ready.”
“Wait,” she said, and, divesting herself of the raincoat, handed it to Walter. “Please leave this with your things in the men's dressing-room, as if it were an extra one of your own, Walter.”
He nodded; she jumped out; and they scurried through the drizzle.
As they reached the porte-cochere she began to laugh airily, and spoke to the impassive man in livery who stood there. “Joke on us!” she said, hurrying by him toward the door of the house. “Our car broke down outside the gate.”
The man remained impassive, though he responded with a faint gleam as Walter, looking back at him, produced for his benefit a cynical distortion of countenance which offered little confirmation of Alice's account of things. Then the door was swiftly opened to the brother and sister; and they came into a marble-floored hall, where a dozen sleeked young men lounged, smoked cigarettes and fastened their gloves, as they waited for their ladies. Alice nodded to one or another of these, and went quickly on, her face uplifted and smiling; but Walter detained her at the door to which she hastened.
“Listen here,” he said. “I suppose you want me to dance the first dance with you——”
“If you please, Walter,” she said, meekly.
“How long you goin' to hang around fixin' up in that dressin'-room?”
“I'll be out before you're ready yourself,” she promised him; and kept her word, she was so eager for her good time to begin. When he came for her, they went down the hall to a corridor opening upon three great rooms which had been thrown open together, with the furniture removed and the broad floors waxed. At one end of the corridor musicians sat in a green grove, and Walter, with some interest, turned toward these; but his sister, pressing his arm, impelled him in the opposite direction.
“What's the matter now?” he asked. “That's Jazz Louie and his half-breed bunch—three white and four mulatto. Let's——?”
“No, no,” she whispered. “We must speak to Mildred and Mr. and Mrs. Palmer.”
“'Speak' to 'em? I haven't got a thing to say to THOSE berries!”
“Walter, won't you PLEASE behave?”
He seemed to consent, for the moment, at least, and suffered her to take him down the corridor toward a floral bower where the hostess stood with her father and mother. Other couples and groups were moving in the same direction, carrying with them a hubbub of laughter and fragmentary chatterings; and Alice, smiling all the time, greeted people on every side of her eagerly—a little more eagerly than most of them responded—while Walter nodded in a noncommittal manner to one or two, said nothing, and yawned audibly, the last resource of a person who finds himself nervous in a false situation. He repeated his yawn and was beginning another when a convulsive pressure upon his arm made him understand that he must abandon this method of reassuring himself. They were close upon the floral bower.
Mildred was giving her hand to one and another of her guests as rapidly as she could, passing them on to her father and mother, and at the same time resisting the efforts of three or four detached bachelors who besought her to give over her duty in favour of the dance-music just beginning to blare.
She was a large, fair girl, with a kindness of eye somewhat withheld by an expression of fastidiousness; at first sight of her it was clear that she would never in her life do anything “incorrect,” or wear anything “incorrect.” But her correctness was of the finer sort, and had no air of being studied or achieved; conduct would never offer her a problem to be settled from a book of rules, for the rules were so deep within her that she was unconscious of them. And behind this perfection there was an even ampler perfection of what Mrs. Adams called “background.” The big, rich, simple house was part of it, and Mildred's father and mother were part of it. They stood beside her, large, serene people, murmuring graciously and gently inclining their handsome heads as they gave their hands to the guests; and even the youngest and most ebullient of these took on a hushed mannerliness with a closer approach to the bower.
When the opportunity came for Alice and Walter to pass within this precinct, Alice, going first, leaned forward and whispered in Mildred's ear. “You DIDN'T wear the maize georgette! That's what I thought you were going to. But you look simply DARLING! And those pearls——”
Others were crowding decorously forward, anxious to be done with ceremony and get to the dancing; and Mildred did not prolong the intimacy of Alice's enthusiastic whispering. With a faint accession of colour and a smile tending somewhat in the direction of rigidity, she carried Alice's hand immediately onward to Mrs. Palmer's. Alice's own colour showed a little heightening as she accepted the suggestion thus implied; nor was that emotional tint in any wise decreased, a moment later, by an impression that Walter, in concluding the brief exchange of courtesies between himself and the stately Mr. Palmer, had again reassured himself with a yawn.
But she did not speak of it to Walter; she preferred not to confirm the impression and to leave in her mind a possible doubt that he had done it. He followed her out upon the waxed floor, said resignedly: “Well, come on,” put his arm about her, and they began to dance.
Alice danced gracefully and well, but not so well as Walter. Of all the steps and runs, of all the whimsical turns and twirlings, of all the rhythmic swayings and dips commanded that season by such blarings as were the barbaric product, loud and wild, of the Jazz Louies and their half-breed bunches, the thin and sallow youth was a master. Upon his face could be seen contempt of the easy marvels he performed as he moved in swift precision from one smooth agility to another; and if some too-dainty or jealous cavalier complained that to be so much a stylist in dancing was “not quite like a gentleman,” at least Walter's style was what the music called for. No other dancer in the room could be thought comparable to him. Alice told him so.
“It's wonderful!” she said. “And the mystery is, where you ever learned to DO it! You never went to dancing-school, but there isn't a man in the room who can dance half so well. I don't see why, when you dance like this, you always make such a fuss about coming to parties.”
He sounded his brief laugh, a jeering bark out of one side of the mouth, and swung her miraculously through a closing space between two other couples. “You know a lot about what goes on, don't you? You prob'ly think there's no other place to dance in this town except these frozen-face joints.”
“'Frozen face?'” she echoed, laughing. “Why, everybody's having a splendid time. Look at them.”
“Oh, they holler loud enough,” he said. “They do it to make each other think they're havin' a good time. You don't call that Palmer family frozen-face berries, I s'pose. No?”
“Certainly