Evidently she was always going to understand; she
was always going to say the right thing. The
discovery made the cup of his bliss overflow, and
he went on gaily: “The worst of it is
that I want to kiss you and I can’t.”
As he spoke he took a swift glance about the conservatory,
assured himself of their momentary privacy, and catching
her to him laid a fugitive pressure on her lips.
To counteract the audacity of this proceeding he
led her to a bamboo sofa in a less secluded part of
the conservatory, and sitting down beside her broke
a lily-of-the-valley from her bouquet. She sat
silent, and the world lay like a sunlit valley at
their feet.
“Did you tell my cousin Ellen?” she asked
presently, as if she spoke through a dream.
He roused himself, and remembered that he had not
done so. Some invincible repugnance to speak
of such things to the strange foreign woman had checked
the words on his lips.
“No—I hadn’t the chance after
all,” he said, fibbing hastily.
“Ah.” She looked disappointed, but
gently resolved on gaining her point. “You
must, then, for I didn’t either; and I shouldn’t
like her to think—”
“Of course not. But aren’t you,
after all, the person to do it?”
She pondered on this. “If I’d done
it at the right time, yes: but now that there’s
been a delay I think you must explain that I’d
asked you to tell her at the Opera, before our speaking
about it to everybody here. Otherwise she might
think I had forgotten her. You see, she’s
one of the family, and she’s been away so long
that she’s rather—sensitive.”
Archer looked at her glowingly. “Dear
and great angel! Of course I’ll tell her.”
He glanced a trifle apprehensively toward the crowded
ball-room. “But I haven’t seen her
yet. Has she come?”
“No; at the last minute she decided not to.”
“At the last minute?” he echoed, betraying
his surprise that she should ever have considered
the alternative possible.
“Yes. She’s awfully fond of dancing,”
the young girl answered simply. “But suddenly
she made up her mind that her dress wasn’t smart
enough for a ball, though we thought it so lovely;
and so my aunt had to take her home.”
“Oh, well—” said Archer with
happy indifference. Nothing about his betrothed
pleased him more than her resolute determination to
carry to its utmost limit that ritual of ignoring
the “unpleasant” in which they had both
been brought up.
“She knows as well as I do,” he reflected,
“the real reason of her cousin’s staying
away; but I shall never let her see by the least sign
that I am conscious of there being a shadow of a shade
on poor Ellen Olenska’s reputation.”
In the course of the next day the first of the usual
betrothal visits were exchanged. The New York
ritual was precise and inflexible in such matters;
and in conformity with it Newland Archer first went
with his mother and sister to call on Mrs. Welland,
after which he and Mrs. Welland and May drove out
to old Mrs. Manson Mingott’s to receive that
venerable ancestress’s blessing.
