CHAPTER SEVEN

On the night Blake's play opened, as she entered the theater, the first person Anita saw was Grace. She stood at the head of the center aisle, within a little group of which she was acting as heart and core. To her throat, held aloof, as if beyond the reach of glances from the inflowing and anonymous crowd and almost beyond the reach of friendly nods, she was folded in a shawl of ivory silk. And her very soul had sheathed itself in silken hauteur, as she stood with eyes that wandered deeply over the lighted theater and the faces agog for pleasure, over silken shoulders and bare shoulders and shoulders black and gray jostling down the aisles and across the aisles toward pleasure. Now and then she murmured some preoccupied reply, not deigning to lower her eyes, to one of the group surrounding her.

Now and then she emerged from this group, swooped from her height with a sudden nod to an entering person, a greeting of unexpected cordiality, a fastening of her eyes upon him.

As Anita was about to approach she issued entirely from her circle and, with no move of seizure, with her arms close under the ivory shawl, she seemed to assume possession of a man just passing by, to spiritually clutch his coat-tails and bring him to a halt.

"I'm so glad--you could come, Maurice," she said with her significant pauses.

To the girl who had loosed his arm and moved ahead of him she gave no attention at the moment. However, without waiting for notice, this girl carelessly turned her face. It was fair as a spring morning. She drawled to Grace, "H'are yuh? Gettin' along?"

And she added with a derisive sweep of her hands up from her nose, "I see yuh're comin' up in the world--yup-in-the-world," and swayed down the aisle.

Imperceptibly, the group drew near Grace again and imperceptibly drew nearer, as if there was that in her shadow which separated them from the anonymous inflow. They kept close under her wing--Letty and Harold, the Lindens, who were friends of theirs, and some persons Anita did not know--staring about over the theater, mantled by her importance, individualizing themselves again as the friends of the author.

Anita attracted a vague "hello" from Grace. In spite of motions from Letty, she went on to her seat. She had not wished to come, but Grace seemed to find her lack of excitement annoying and she did not like to offend Grace. The latter had been so kind about getting her her job. She was alone. She had never been to an opening night and watched with solitary interest a hocus-pocus of ceremonial new to her.

In the first rows, among which she sat, everyone seemed to perform the ritual of knowing one another. As soon as a person reached a seat, he or she would search the surrounding faces for signs of recognition and attempt to form alliance with some portion of the scattered inner circle who were making this opening their festive and intimate occasion. All the other undifferentiated faces, tiers and tiers, on the balcony, up and down the rows, pressed heavily forward; a shower of undifferentiated chatter and laughter splashed the theater like a shower of bright raindrops. One mustn't let oneself be swamped by these other faces. And every nod, every acknowledging glance, every knowing remark was a slight thread to grasp with which to outline the boundary between those within and the other undistinguished mass without. It was as if the more nods, the more smiles they collected, the more exchanges of specialized gossip, the more assurance they gained that this boundary was defined. It was as if each nod, each smile, each familiar greeting slowly brought their individualities into shape from formlessness, like chemicals etching on seemingly blank paper inch by inch the outlines of a secret script. It was as if, in the widening scope of these nods, these smiles, these familiar greetings, they could see their individualities expand and gauge their bulk, as one may gauge the bulk of a stone by the widening ripples in the water.

In the anticipant hush after the first lights had been dimmed Grace advanced down the aisle. Blake would not sit with her. Sleek in evening clothes, he spoke quietly and did his best to suppress excitement or suspense. But his voice gave him away. He was quite hoarse. Grace was saying, "Considering that it's a musical show and there are two other openings, what can you expect? The critics would naturally choose Toreador. Maurice Lensky came anyway--that's something. And I saw Edmond Edmonds, too. Really--if you get two of the second-string critics, that's doing very well, with two--more imposing--shows opening the same night."

Blake frowned and moved away. Her eyes looked after him in some surprise, while a smile rose to her lips, and seeing Anita near her she whispered, "He hates me to say any show is more important. I never dreamed he would take this--so seriously." She passed, smiling to herself, and was followed by Diana Porter Reece with her husband and a man who, Anita noticed gratefully, also wore his every-day clothes.

"You go sit by Anita," said Diana Reece.

Somebody shushed her. The last lights went out and left this man, whose red hair was plastered every which way on his neck and forehead, fumbling at his seat. He grinned at Anita. The curtain rose.

Soon after the play had started a whisper fluttered along the row from Grace through Diana Reece and reached Anita. She saw a man proceeding down the aisle, followed by a blonde woman who dragged tennis rackets. The man took his seat first, then drew himself away so that he hung over the aisle, in order to let the woman pass. He continued to sit in this fashion. It was a colyumnist with his wife. From time to time Grace craned her neck to see whether he smiled or applauded.

The play was a neat little play, neither as lavish as most musical comedies nor quite as vapid. Blake had permitted himself the boast that there was not one scene in which the hero dreamed of chorus girls portraying anything, whether the Spirits of Bituminous Coal or the Fashions of Yesteryear. His boast was justified. The curtain fell on the mild glow of a neat little melody, "Your Kisses Are Blisses." The audience hummed it and the orchestra plugged away at it. All the people who knew each other rose and hurried to the lobby. "Come along," said Diana Reece kindly. So Anita came along, too.

The confusion of the lobby under yellow lights gradually resolved itself into groups of people, smiling, nodding, exchanging specialized gossip, asking each other how they liked the show and answering with an aplomb that would mark them for the initiate. "Well, what do you think of it?" "Not so hot, huh?" "Think it'll go?" "Why not?" "Got one good song." "And one set. It won't take 'em long to work off the nut, anyhow." "Good chorus. Not a bad idea, a specialty chorus."

"Well, how do you like it?" said Grace, coming up with warm cheeks of excitement and enormous eyes. "I don't know where Blake has disappeared. Everybody wants to see him."

"It's swell so far," declared Diana Reece. The bronze flesh of her shoulders shone above a blazing wrap.

Her husband added in his heavy, slow voice, "That's a good tune."

"'Your Kisses Are Blisses.' Yes. I think--that should be a hit."

The third man kept a solemn silence. Anita thought that he looked like the Irishmen in the comic strips, square with a wide, almost lipless mouth, a stubby nose and, yes, freckles. He had, moreover, their very expression, subtly naughty and unblinkingly solemn. Grace was looking at him, too, with a coy lift of her brows that Anita understood meant she was aware of him.

"How did you like it, Dennis?" she asked.

"O.K.," said Dennis through his nose.

Diana's laughter rippled broadly. "That's all you'll ever get out of him. Look, Grace," she said. "There's your mysterious telephone lady. There's Renie Harrington, large as life and just as permanent, if you can figure out what I mean."

They all saw Blake approaching with a little golden-haired woman, all in white, lavishing animated hands, animated eyes, and an animated, pointed face entirely on him, while his own countenance showed, in spite of itself, a pale tinge of pleasure.

"Try dynamite," advised Diana. "That may dislodge her, but, mind you, I make no promises."

Grace moved toward them at once, wrapped in her ivory shawl, cool. "I've been out--gathering opinions," she said to Blake. "Everyone is crazy about that song."

The other woman paused and, in several glances, they considered each other. She made a slight retreat. "I've just been telling Mr. Andrews how _charming_ my husband and I think it is. And we really do know quite a bit about the theater, in spite of being amateurs. Even Mr. Andrews has heard of our little theater." Eyes, hands, lips, and the pointed chin all assisted in a crescendo of admiration, now discreetly including Grace.

Blake had no choice but to introduce them, so that they could measure each other in full politeness, reconnoitering with their eyes, with soft words, along each other's soft, self-contained faces for the exact situation. "You must all really come and see _our_ little theater," said Mrs. Harrington. "At the Peck Settlement."

And, "Are you--coming to Blake's party after the show?" said Grace.

"If Mr. Andrews asks us," said Mrs. Harrington coquettishly. So Blake, glancing at Grace with a rueful amusement, asked her. The bell tinkled.

Again the curtain rose. This time the colyumnist's seat was empty, causing Grace's face to fall and whispers to circulate between her and Diana Reece. Only Anita and the red-haired chap remained unaffected by this discovery. Soberly, they watched the stage upon which creatures dazzling in light made no secret of a business-like exhibition of wares. Neither said a word. Each applauded conscientiously at the proper moments. At one such moment, as they caught each other's eye, Dennis became almost articulate. Pressing one half of his mouth over the other in a slow grin, like a small boy closing his lips over stolen jam, he winked. It was an expression that could not be answered by a smile; it engendered a similar grin. Anita began to laugh, feeling with surprise that she was happy for no reason.

The second closing chorus seemed brighter and the finale poured forth in an urgent volume of vari-colored melody, light, and noise, rising as high as it could or dared on the highest of high notes. The orchestra played, "Your Kisses Are Blisses." The audience rose humming, "Your Kisses Are Blisses." And out in the lobby they were selling it: "Get the music of the show--'Your Kisses Are Blisses.'"

The crowd moved slowly, unsnarled itself from the tangles at the exits, out into the summer air which no blatancy of electric lights could harden or speed. Anita had meant to slip away, but she was caught tight in a group formed by Grace, who cast her eyes everywhere, and by other people who were going to the party. Grace's eyes were somewhat shadowed. Turning to Anita, who stood nearest, she seized her arm and made a more eager effort to get out. "I'd better go home," murmured Anita, and Grace looked at her in amazement. "You won't come to the party? You're silly! You must come with me. I don't know what's happened to Blake." She was no longer remote. The outline of her face, always quick to reflect inner commotion, had hardened. It had a sudden tragic emphasis as her eyes widened, grew deep and obscure with whatever momentarily troubled thoughts engaged her. What these could be Anita did not understand, but she was caught up and swept along.

They found Blake already at his apartment, playing host to the Harringtons and to some individuals who were devoted exclusively to the cocktails. Blake strewed cheer like beams of sunshine about him. He poured drinks for people, hastening here and there almost on the balls of his feet, and patting Anita's arm, to her great surprise. Grace seemed almost as surprised, seemed at a loss. With her all-encompassing gaze, with a serene demeanour in which lurked a hint of challenge, lovely in chiffon whose rose-hued pallor was differentiated only by a shade from the glowing pallor of her skin, she moved about under the watching eyes of Renie Harrington, defining her place as hostess. Renie Harrington's dashing eyes rested on her from time to time, sensing, retreating, adjusting. Grace went to sit by her. They engaged in animated conversation. Anita, passing by, heard Grace suggest, "Let's--have a lunch date sometime, shall we?"

Shortly, the entrance of the rest of the party was heralded by Diana Reece. She had thrown off her flaming shawl. She burst upon them from the doorway in sequins that shimmered and dazzled and glittered sinuously with each step, in bracelets that clinked, in a bar pin whose diamond sparkle went clear across the room and stabbed the eyes of a youth between cocktails and reality. He had had a deal to drink, and, blinking in this brilliance composed of scintillas that flashed before his eyes unseizably in his condition, bewildered by the rays of diamonds, the shine of golden bracelets, the fleshly luxuriance of rich dark skin and a red mouth, he had one of the sudden inspirations of the inebriate. He stalked across the room to Dee and took her hand and faced the company.

"Produced by Morris Gest," he said with due solemnity. And retired amid the ensuing plaudits and seemed to vanish and was heard of no more that night.

For a time, Anita and Dennis managed to sit very cheerfully together by a window open into warm and misty air. They attracted no attention. They said almost nothing, unless a series of grins and answering grins could be considered talk. She did not even know his name. There was between them the curious unrestraint of strangers meeting with no background but that of the particular time and the particular space, and sure to part there. But when Anita saw Grace stare at them with an amused and dawning comprehension in the depths of her eyes, saw Grace advance toward them, like a mutual friend breaking in upon the unbounded sympathy of strangers, enclosing it at once within the restrictions of the social order, she felt a qualm of uneasiness and wished to retreat. Dennis, however, had now managed to drink enough to simulate articulateness. He grasped her hand in alarm, pulling her back. "Ah, no! Don't go!"

Grace took a seat and surveyed them with a slight, surprised smile, with an approving intimacy.

"What do you find to say to each other?" she demanded.

Taken unawares, they raised their eyes and looked at each other with another grin. Grace stared at Dennis, then back to Anita more fully, revolving almost distinctly, on the surface of her eyes, a new appraisal of Anita's possibilities.

"Why aren't you dancing?" she suggested. They hadn't thought of it.

"Dennis is a very good dancer," said Grace. She probed Anita's face, seeming to hint for some response to what she was arranging, which was not clear to Anita. "You ought to see him on a real dance floor." She added with many pauses and the advance and inflation of her eyes, "Why don't we--have a dancing date sometime? Dennis and you and Blake and I and Dee and one of her young men?"

"O.K.," said Dennis agreeably.

"Next week--maybe?"

"O.K.," said Dennis. "Any time you say."

"Well--I'll make the arrangements--and call you," she added, and glanced at Anita for gratitude. But Anita was flushing. It seemed to her that the shameless mechanism of Grace's plans must be as apparent to Dennis as it was to her. Grace had acted in all friendliness and she would look forward to the date--and yet some of the easiness had vanished. Her face, when she looked at Dennis thereafter, must wear a certain constraint.

It was a good party. Two policemen, called by some unaccountable neighboring spinsters in the small hours, saw at once that no one was less than conventionally clothed and no one more than conventionally drunk. They agreed in righteous indignation at the insomnia of spinsters. They said, "Why this is a nice party!" They were welcomed into it. A girl borrowed one officer's cap and club and did a dance, while they watched indulgently from the doorway. They were offered a drink and did not refuse. Blake, at the peak of goodwill toward all the world, pressed passes to his show upon them. Everyone was grateful for the seal of true abandon which they had set on the party. Everyone would be glad to tell of having been to a party which had brought police intervention. On leaving, everyone said with satisfaction, "A swell party!"

Grace was going home with Harold and Letty. She made a definite ceremony of departure for the benefit of Renie Harrington who, bolstered by her husband, sat on and glanced and sensed, an acute reminder of the exigencies of social usage. Renie Harrington's artful eyes silkily subverted the position of hostess which Grace had taken such care to indicate.

"We'll--see each other again--soon, won't we?" said Grace.

"Oh, are you going?" said Renie Harrington. And her eyes rubbed in the fact that, after all, Grace had to go. Ah, those leave-takings so often, at the end, forcing her outside!

She drew Anita apart to say good-bye.

"Is Dennis taking you home?" she inquired.

He was.

"Anita," said Grace wistfully, "he's awfully nice. We could all have such a lot of fun together if we had a place."

Her eyes were still, so still, with a velvet pathos. She looked weary and lines of strain had lengthened her cheeks above the ivory shawl. She pressed Anita's hand with a sudden clutching warmth, and had to go.