She found her maid gone, and Mademoiselle waiting
to help her undress. Mademoiselle often did
that. It made her feel still essential in Lily’s
life.
“A long seance!” she said. “Your
mother told me to-night. It is Newport?”
“He wants me to go. Unhook me, Mademoiselle,
and then run off and go to bed. You ought not
to wait up like this.”
“Newport!” said Mademoiselle, deftly slipping
off the white and silver that was Lily’s gown.
“It will be wonderful, dear. And you
will be a great success. You are very beautiful.”
“I am not going to Newport, Mademoiselle.”
Mademoiselle broke into rapid expostulation, in French.
Every girl wanted to make her debut at Newport.
Here it was all industry, money, dirt. Men
who slaved in offices daily. At Newport was
gathered the real leisure class of America, those who
knew how to play, who lived. But Lily, taking
off her birthday pearls before the mirror of her dressing
table, only shook her head.
“I’m not going,” she said.
“I might as well tell you, for you’ll
hear about it later. I have quarreled with him,
very badly. I think he intends to lock me up.”
“C’est impossible!” cried Mademoiselle.
But a glance at Lily’s set face in the mirror
told her it was true.
She went away very soon, sadly troubled. There
were bad times coming. The old peaceful quiet
days were gone, for age and obstinacy had met youth
and the arrogance of youth, and it was to be battle.
But there was a truce for a time. Lily came
and went without interference, and without comment.
Nothing more was said about Newport. She motored
on bright days to the country club, lunched and played
golf or tennis, rode along the country lanes with Pink
Denslow, accepted such invitations as came her way
cheerfully enough but without enthusiasm, and was
very gentle to her mother. But Mademoiselle found
her tense and restless, as though she were waiting.
And there were times when she disappeared for an hour
or two in the afternoons, proffering no excuses, and
came back flushed, and perhaps a little frightened.
On the evenings that followed those small excursions
she was particularly gentle to her mother. Mademoiselle
watched and waited for the blow she feared was about
to fall. She felt sure that the girl was seeing
Louis Akers, and that she would ultimately marry him.
In her despair she fell back on Willy Cameron and
persuaded Grace to invite him to dinner. It
was meant to be a surprise for Lily, but she had telephoned
at seven o’clock that she was dining at the
Doyles’.
It was that evening that Willy Cameron learned that
Mr. Hendricks had been right about Lily. He
and Grace dined alone, for Howard was away at a political
conference, and Anthony had dined at his club.
And in the morning room after dinner Grace found herself
giving him her confidence.
