CHAPTER V

For Claire Robson, there followed after the memorable Condor-Stillman musicale a period of slack-water.  It seemed as if a deadly stagnation was to poison her existence, so sharp and emphasized was her boredom.  On the other hand, Mrs. Robson seemed to have contrived, from years of living among arid pleasures, the ability to conserve every happiness that she chanced upon to its last drop.  Claire’s invitation to be one of a distinguished group fed her vanity long after her daughter had outworn the delights of retrospection.  The memory of this incident filled Mrs. Robson’s thoughts, her dreams, her conversation.  Gradually, as the days dragged by, bit by bit, she gleaned detached details of what had transpired, weaving them into a vivid whole, for the entertainment of herself and the amazement of her neighbor, Mrs. Finnegan.

Formerly Mrs. Finnegan’s information regarding what went on in exclusive circles was confined to society dramas on the screen and the Sunday supplement.  The personal note which Mrs. Robson brought to her recitals was a new and pleasing experience.  After listening to the authentic gossip of Mrs. Robson, Mrs. Finnegan would return to her threshold with a sense of having shared state secrets.  On such occasions Mrs. Robson’s frankness had almost a challenge in it; she exaggerated many details and concealed none.

“Yes,” she would repeat, emphatically, “they served cigarettes along with the wine.  They always do.”

“Well, Mrs. Robson,” Mrs. Finnegan inevitably returned, “far be it from me to criticize what your daughter’s friends do.  But I don’t approve of women smoking.”

As a matter of fact, neither did Mrs. Robson, but she felt in duty bound to resent Mrs. Finnegan’s narrow attacks upon society.

“Well, Mrs. Finnegan, that’s only because you’re not accustomed to it.  Now, if you had ever....”

“Did Claire smoke?”

“Why, of course not!  How can you ask such a thing?  I hope I’ve brought my daughter up decently, Mrs. Finnegan.”

And with that, Mrs. Robson would deftly switch to a less exciting detail of the Condor-Stillman musicale, before her neighbor had a chance to pick flaws in her logic.  But sooner or later the topic would again verge on the controversial.  Usually at the point where the scene shifted from Ned Stillman’s apartments to the Palace Hotel, Mrs. Finnegan’s pug nose was lifted with tentative disapproval, as she inquired: 

“How many did you say went down to the Palace?”

“Only four—­Mr. Stillman, Claire, Mrs. Condor, and a young fellow named Edington.”

“I suppose that Mrs. Condor was the chaperon.  Finnegan knows her well!  She used to hire hacks when Finnegan was in the livery business years ago.  She’s a gay one, I can tell you.  When only the steam-dummy ran out to the Cliff House....”

“That’s nothing.  Everybody who was anybody had dinners at the Cliff House in those days.  I remember how my father....”