The Greatest Works of Edith Wharton - 31 Books in One Edition. Edith Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ to precede her. Undine found Mrs. Van Degen putting on her cloak. As she gathered it about her she laid her hand on Marvell’s arm.

      “Ralphie, dear, you’ll come to the opera with me on Friday? We’ll dine together first—Peter’s got a club dinner.” They exchanged what seemed a smile of intelligence, and Undine heard the young man accept. Then Mrs. Van Degen turned to her.

      “Goodbye, Miss Spragg. I hope you’ll come—”

      “—TO DINE WITH ME TOO?” That must be what she was going to say, and Undine’s heart gave a bound.

      “—to see me some afternoon,” Mrs. Van Degen ended, going down the steps to her motor, at the door of which a much-furred footman waited with more furs on his arm.

      Undine’s face burned as she turned to receive her cloak. When she had drawn it on with haughty deliberation she found Marvell at her side, in hat and overcoat, and her heart gave a higher bound. He was going to “escort” her home, of course! This brilliant youth—she felt now that he WAS brilliant—who dined alone with married women, whom the “Van Degen set” called “Ralphie, dear,” had really no eyes for any one but herself; and at the thought her lost self-complacency flowed back warm through her veins.

      The street was coated with ice, and she had a delicious moment descending the steps on Marvell’s arm, and holding it fast while they waited for her cab to come up; but when he had helped her in he closed the door and held his hand out over the lowered window.

      “Goodbye,” he said, smiling; and she could not help the break of pride in her voice, as she faltered out stupidly, from the depths of her disillusionment: “Oh—goodbye.”

      IV

      “Father, you’ve got to take a box for me at the opera next Friday.”

      From the tone of her voice Undine’s parents knew at once that she was “nervous.”

      They had counted a great deal on the Fairford dinner as a means of tranquillization, and it was a blow to detect signs of the opposite result when, late the next morning, their daughter came dawdling into the sodden splendour of the Stentorian breakfast-room.

      The symptoms of Undine’s nervousness were unmistakable to Mr. and Mrs. Spragg. They could read the approaching storm in the darkening of her eyes from limpid grey to slate-colour, and in the way her straight black brows met above them and the red curves of her lips narrowed to a parallel line below.

      Mr. Spragg, having finished the last course of his heterogeneous meal, was adjusting his gold eyeglasses for a glance at the paper when Undine trailed down the sumptuous stuffy room, where coffee-fumes hung perpetually under the emblazoned ceiling and the spongy carpet might have absorbed a year’s crumbs without a sweeping.

      About them sat other pallid families, richly dressed, and silently eating their way through a bill-of-fare which seemed to have ransacked the globe for gastronomic incompatibilities; and in the middle of the room a knot of equally pallid waiters, engaged in languid conversation, turned their backs by common consent on the persons they were supposed to serve.

      Undine, who rose too late to share the family breakfast, usually had her chocolate brought to her in bed by Celeste, after the manner described in the articles on “A Society Woman’s Day” which were appearing in Boudoir Chat. Her mere appearance in the restaurant therefore prepared her parents for those symptoms of excessive tension which a nearer inspection confirmed, and Mr. Spragg folded his paper and hooked his glasses to his waistcoat with the air of a man who prefers to know the worst and have it over.

      “An opera box!” faltered Mrs. Spragg, pushing aside the bananas and cream with which she had been trying to tempt an appetite too languid for fried liver or crab mayonnaise.

      “A parterre box,” Undine corrected, ignoring the exclamation, and continuing to address herself to her father. “Friday’s the stylish night, and that new tenor’s going to sing again in ‘Cavaleeria,’” she condescended to explain.

      “That so?” Mr. Spragg thrust his hands into his waistcoat pockets, and began to tilt his chair till he remembered there was no wall to meet it. He regained his balance and said: “Wouldn’t a couple of good orchestra seats do you?”

      “No; they wouldn’t,” Undine answered with a darkening brow. He looked at her humorously. “You invited the whole dinner-party, I suppose?”

      “No—no one.”

      “Going all alone in a box?” She was disdainfully silent. “I don’t s’pose you’re thinking of taking mother and me?”

      This was so obviously comic that they all laughed—even Mrs. Spragg—and Undine went on more mildly: “I want to do something for Mabel Lipscomb: make some return. She’s always taking me ‘round, and I’ve never done a thing for her—not a single thing.”

      This appeal to the national belief in the duty of reciprocal “treating” could not fail of its effect, and Mrs. Spragg murmured: “She never HAS, Abner,”—but Mr. Spragg’s brow remained unrelenting.

      “Do you know what a box costs?”

      “No; but I s’pose you do,” Undine returned with unconscious flippancy.

      “I do. That’s the trouble. WHY won’t seats do you?”

      “Mabel could buy seats for herself.”

      “That’s so,” interpolated Mrs. Spragg—always the first to succumb to her daughter’s arguments.

      “Well, I guess I can’t buy a box for her.”

      Undine’s face gloomed more deeply. She sat silent, her chocolate thickening in the cup, while one hand, almost as much beringed as her mother’s, drummed on the crumpled tablecloth.

      “We might as well go straight back to Apex,” she breathed at last between her teeth.

      Mrs. Spragg cast a frightened glance at her husband. These struggles between two resolute wills always brought on her palpitations, and she wished she had her phial of digitalis with her.

      “A parterre box costs a hundred and twenty-five dollars a night,” said Mr. Spragg, transferring a toothpick to his waistcoat pocket.

      “I only want it once.”

      He looked at her with a quizzical puckering of his crows’-feet. “You only want most things once. Undine.”

      It was an observation they had made in her earliest youth—Undine never wanted anything long, but she wanted it “right off.” And until she got it the house was uninhabitable.

      “I’d a good deal rather have a box for the season,” she rejoined, and he saw the opening he had given her. She had two ways of getting things out of him against his principles; the tender wheedling way, and the harsh-lipped and cold—and he did not know which he dreaded most. As a child they had admired her assertiveness, had made Apex ring with their boasts of it; but it had long since cowed Mrs. Spragg, and it was beginning to frighten her husband.

      “Fact is, Undie,” he said, weakening, “I’m a little mite strapped just this month.”

      Her eyes grew absentminded, as they always did when he alluded to business. THAT was СКАЧАТЬ