I heard Maw catch her breath, and I heard Maw’s
husband give a grunt. Then I rose. “How
are you, Billy?” gurgled a voice—one
of those voices made especially for social occasions.
“Wretched boy, why do you never come to see
us?”
“I was coming to-morrow,” I said—for
who could prove otherwise? “Mrs. Stebbins,
permit me to introduce Mrs. Tszchniczklefritszch.”
“Charmed to meet you, I’m sure,”
said Mrs. Stebbins. “I’ve heard my
husband speak of your husband so often. How well
you are looking, Mrs.—”
She stopped; and Maw, knowing the terrors of her name,
made haste to say something agreeable. “Yes,
ma’am; dis country agrees vit me fine.
Since I come here, I’ve rode and et, shoost rode
and et.”
“And Mr. T-S,” said I.
“Howdydo, Mr. T-S?”
“Pretty good, ma’am,” said T-S.
He had been caught with his mouth full, and was making
desperate efforts to swallow.
A singular thing is the power of class prestige!
Here was Maw, a good woman, according to her lights,
who had worked hard all her life, and had achieved
a colossal and astounding success. She had everything
in the world that money could buy; her hair was done
by the best hair-dresser, her gown had been designed
by the best costumer, her rings and bracelets selected
by the best jeweller; and yet nothing was right, no
power on earth could make it right, and Maw knew it,
and writhed the consciousness of it. And here
was Mrs. Parmelee Stebbins, who had never done a useful
thing in all her days—except you count
the picking out of a rich husband; yet Mrs. Stebbins
was “right,” and Maw knew it, and in the
presence of the other woman she was in an utter panic,
literally quivering in every nerve. And here
was old T-S, who, left to himself, might have really
meant what he said, that Mrs. Stebbins could go to
hell; but because he was married, and loved his wife,
he too trembled, and gulped down his food!
Mrs. Stebbins is one of those American matrons who
do not allow marriage and motherhood to make vulgar
physical impressions upon them. Her pale blue
gown might have been worn by her daughter; her cool
grey eyes looked out through a face without a wrinkle
from a soul without a care. She was a patroness
of art and intellect; but never did she forget her
fundamental duty, the enhancing of the prestige of
a family name. When she was introduced to a screen-actress,
she was gracious, but did not forget the difference
between an actress and a lady. When she was introduced
to a strange man who did not wear trousers, she took
it quite as an everyday matter, revealing no trace
of vulgar human curiosity.
There came Bertie, full grown, but not yet out of
the pimply stage, and still conscious of the clothes
which he had taken such pains to get right. Bertie’s
sister remained in her seat, refusing naughtily to
be compromised by her mother’s vagaries; but
Bertie had a purpose, and after I had introduced him
round, I saw what he wanted—Mary Magna!
Bertie had a vision of himself as a sort of sporting
prince in this movie world. His social position
would make conquests easy; it was a sort of Christmas-tree,
all a-glitter with prizes.
