CHAPTER EIGHT

Grace's lunch date with Renie Harrington had to be postponed, for Renie explained that she seldom came to town during the summer. As soon as Grace heard of her return, therefore, she called up.

She was surprised to find herself haled to tea. Perhaps Renie had discovered that, socially, it was not so possible to remain unaware of Grace in connection with Blake. This was what Grace minded--not so much that Blake had been loath to reveal her existence to Renie Harrington, but that Renie could invite him to her country home for dinner--alone--and for week-ends--alone. Of course, Grace knew that she also could move in circles apart from Blake, but she didn't _want_ to; it gave her a sense of stability to have the pair of them recognized as a social unit.

Renie Harrington lived on the less fashionable west side of the park. In a living room lined with books and charming trinkets, and arranged to express wealth with unusual lack of ostentation, Grace learned that her hostess spoke French and Spanish, that she knew about "incunabula," whatever they were, that she collected first editions, went to auction sales, had an acquaintance by no means naïve and worshipful, yet a bit wistful, with practitioners of the arts, and that she and her husband were wrapped up in the theater at the settlement house. Dick trained the members in acrobatic dancing and Renie helped him to choose and stage the shows. Yet she was not a "yearner," Grace thought. She was no fool and very amusing. Her hair cast a golden shadow over the sharpness of her chin and the suggestion of lines about her cherubic lips, it sent a gleam like that of a sunbeam skimming over her words, delicately shining, delicately hiding. She had many fine gestures to suit.

"Would you mind if we went to look at my child?" she said after a time. "I'm playing nurse maid this afternoon. Just think, I have three children. I'd like a fourth. But, you see, there's been a strange rivalry on that score between myself and my sister and my cousin; we were all married about the same time and whenever either of us has a child, the others feel they must have one also. After the third childbirth my cousin was left so weak that Aunt called upon Nannie and myself and said, 'Don't you think it's about time you girls stopped bearing children? You'll be the death of each other yet.' So we have ceased! _Enfin!_"

Grace raised her eyebrows and remarked that it was, indeed, a strange rivalry.

They were now in the nursery. "What do you think of Anne-Marie?" said Renie.

"She's a very--cunning child." Grace approached the crib on tiptoe. "I should say she looked rather like your husband."

"Doesn't she? Isn't it strange? You'll see how strange it is when I tell you the story."

Once more in the living room, she settled herself on a green couch, and though she did not steal looks to right and left, she gave that impression.

"I shouldn't tell you," she said. "If you'll promise to be as silent as the grave--well, and so this is what happened. We were in the hospital, my sister and I, at about the same time, but my little child died--and Nannie had twins! The irony of it! You can imagine how devastated I was--and there was poor Nannie with two little girls already and two more to bring up. So I had a brilliant inspiration and--in short, Nannie consented to give me one of the twins to raise as my own--and that twin is Anne-Marie!"

For an instant Grace was genuinely startled.

"Why, but everyone thinks you have three children of your own. I remember Dee Reece mentioned it--and Blake----"

"Oh," cried Renie with a little squeal, "but we haven't breathed it to a soul! No one knows except the immediate family. Remember, you mustn't tell--mustn't tell even Blake--though I suppose you tell each other everything?"

It was as if she had stroked Grace with a light velvet paw that yet left a faint, apprehensive suggestion of a sting either just administered or just to come. What she was after Grace did not yet quite understand. She was fairly sure of what Blake was up to--some little thing, some word or expression or lack of expression, the intuition which was not intuition at all but the most meticulous observation, never failed to give her a clue. But what might Renie Harrington be capable of?

"Not--necessarily," she said aloud.

"Well, of course," said Renie, retreating (she was good at retreats, Grace had noticed), "there might not be anything to tell! Blake is such a charming young man--and so able--and he has the most perfect taste, hasn't he? I had to come into town to do some shopping one day and whom should I stumble upon on Fifth Avenue but Blake! So he helped me choose scarves and sweaters and socks and shoes--and a really interesting cigarette case. See--isn't it fascinating?"

"Yes, it's pretty," said Grace, and in spite of her disquiet her lips curved demurely as she held the silk case in her hands. It happened that she herself had pointed out the case to Blake in a shop window; she felt certain that he had sent it to Renie. "The little cat!" she thought suddenly. "She's playing with me--those goofy stories! That's what she wanted me up here for."

But why should Renie bother to hide the fact that Blake had sent her a cigarette case? There was a story Grace had picked up about Renie in the course of her inquiries, a story which she now remembered. Renie had married the fiancé of her best friend while the other girl's back was turned.

"Speaking of Blake," Grace said, "you know we go about a lot to first nights--I have enough theatrical connections to get good first-night tickets without much trouble. I wondered--if you'd like to come with us some time?"

"Oh, I'd like to. I'd have to ask Dick, of course. He's being very busy just now. We're old-fashioned. We don't believe in having dates apart from each other."

"You like to keep your eyes on each other," thought Grace, and she recollected that, so far, she had never suspected Blake of having any but afternoon dates with Renie.

"Of course, I meant to include him," she said aloud.

"And you must come up to dinner here some night with Blake and we'll take you to our theater."

"That would be--lots of fun."

Grace glanced at Renie and it seemed to her that Renie had taken a swift look at her. Could it be that Dick was jealous and Renie had been reduced to using her, Grace, as a shield for her coquetries with Blake? Nothing could suit Grace better. She didn't mind the coquetries so long as she knew their limitations. She felt somewhat relieved.

She went into Renie's room to fix her hair. Renie followed, talking amiably.

"How nice that you've never cut your hair," she remarked. "I can't imagine you with short hair, any more than I can imagine myself. And you do it up so perfectly!"

"Well, it isn't so good right now," said Grace. "I usually have a bit cut off now and then. I hate any hint of a--door-knob--at the back, don't you?"

"Yes, it could be trimmed," said Renie, with her head to one side. Suddenly she clapped her hands. "Oh, do let me trim it for you! I adore cutting hair. I always cut Nannie's hair and my children's hair. I'm an expert. See, here are the scissors ready to hand. Do let me--just this once."

Grace laughed and submitted, but with a slight anxiety. She was rigidly careful of her hair. It had to be marceled just so and arranged just so. Still--it seemed silly to object. "Please be sure not to cut too much off--just a very little bit." She watched Renie in the glass.

There was one snip, then another. "That's enough," said Grace. "No, it isn't even," declared Renie. Before Grace could stop her there was a third long snip and Renie had cut off a full quarter of the hair. Grace jerked her head away. She went quite white and was on the point of grabbing the shears. Renie stood by, giggling like a naughty child. "Oh, I couldn't stop myself! It struck me what fun it would be to bob it. Do let me bob it, now I've started. Do you know, that's how I bobbed Nannie's hair--she asked me to trim the ends, and before she knew it I had it all cut off. Such a joke on her!"

"It must have been," said Grace, quivering. After a second during which she clenched her hands tight, she gathered the remainder of her hair into a knot. It was difficult, since Grace's hair had not been very long in the first place. Some of the hairpins would not hold; a few ends straggled.

"Oh, you don't really mind," coaxed Renie. Grace could see her face in the glass. It looked impishly cheerful. "Why, it'll grow in no time. Nannie and I are always playing jokes like that on each other. Just this summer, in the country, I asked her to put a freckle lotion on my face and she spread on some stuff that's supposed to make hair grow! Fortunately, it didn't work--but we laughed over it for ages."

"What a happy family that must be!" thought Grace. The hair stayed up, anyhow. It might have been worse. She tucked on her hat and managed a smile. "Well, it was certainly nearly a joke on me," she said, in a tone that tried to be tolerant but kept a residue of crispness. She was, in fact, almost scared, and so nervous that she could not bear Renie another moment.

The latter showered her with expressions of penitence. "I never thought you'd mind so much. I can't resist a practical joke--it's an inane trait, I know. Do let me---- Oh, a Spanish comb would be stunning on you--with your eyes. I have a gorgeous one presented to me by an admirer, and, as often happens with the presents of admirers, I have no use for it. If you can wear it..."

Grace departed with the Spanish comb, with a promise to come to dinner soon and a disturbed sense of being obliged to defend herself against unfamiliar weapons. Women weren't supposed to be cats these days, to fight with rapiers and jeweled daggers and artfully curved knives, not to mention delicate claws--obsolete weapons all and so much more flexible and treacherous than the blunt pistol. Think of trying to ruin your opponent's hair or her complexion--for she felt almost certain it was with deliberate malice Renie had used the scissors. It wasn't done, it wasn't modern!

Dusk had already fallen. It was foggy, windy, drizzling, and Grace started for home. When she reached the Sixth Avenue El, however, she changed her mind and continued to Broadway. Letty had just moved to a larger apartment a few blocks away, for she was expecting a child. There would be a story to tell Letty--and Blake, too.

She was cheered by the lights on Broadway. It was not indeed like the forest fire of clustered electrics that burned farther down, shedding, on clear nights, a haze like smoke over the sky for blocks around. The lights here were small, farther apart; they fell like a shower of golden raindrops through the mist.

Now that danger was past, she even began to see the humor of Renie's ways of warfare. She did not blame Renie for a flirtation which seemed to be mostly an idle test of skill--for Renie, she judged, had no idea of chancing the throw of so solid a bonnet as Dick Harrington over any windmills. It was often fun to test one's skill. She did it herself, and if she, why not Renie? Time was when she would have trembled with jealousy at Blake's slightest concurrence. But why should she tremble now? After all, she could concur, too, if she liked. As one possessing some of the qualities at least which made for victory, why should she ever be afraid? She wouldn't be. She wasn't. Let it be always open season, good hunting for all! Let the defeated, those who were not strong enough, those who were too squeamish, plead for quarter, balk at the game, struggle to change.

It was merely that she disliked women who did not rule their own closed seasons--a type like Renie, for instance, for whom much of the interest in an affair lay in the ability to harass some other woman by it. It was a type that never trusted others of its sex; no wonder, when it wasn't to be trusted itself! She, Grace, would not knowingly engage in a flirtation which meant nothing to herself but which caused anguish to another girl. All that other had to do was to ask her to stop.

Of course, if there were some strong compulsion, such as there had been with Blake--that was beyond blame as it was beyond reason. People might say she had taken a man away from his wife, but it had been through neither careless experiment nor selfish plan. She had been compelled to do so--if indeed she had taken that which had been just as strongly impelled to go. And she had risked herself, had taken every chance; to be an "other woman" she had made sacrifices. She remembered sitting in Schrafft's one day with Ruth, among matrons who wore diamond engagement rings and diamond-encrusted wedding rings as they ate whipped-cream lunches between shopping and the matinée. She and Ruth had to choose more by the prices on the right side of the menu than by the dishes on the left. And Ruth said, as they were skipping dessert ("just two cups of coffee, please")--Ruth said, with a sweep of her hand over the fur-coated, diamond-encrusted mélange, "Pity the poor wives, Grace! Not a diamond between us and we're these terrible other women!" Then she and Ruth had to rush back to their jobs. Jobs bore watching; it was easy to lose jobs. And they had no one but themselves to rely on. Not laws. Not lovers. Certainly not Blake! It was his wife whom Blake felt obligated to shield, his wife whom he permitted to rely on him. She, Grace, was his equal in love, and equals bear their own responsibilities without so much as a complaint, let alone a desire to share their burdens.

She did not mind exactly--but so many of the responsibilities had sprung from or were accentuated by Blake. Ma was on the rampage again--Grace had believed that bringing Blake to dinner now and then would cause Ma to subside. But she complained that Grace stayed away too many nights. "Yes! And if Jerry didn't have his blonde momma, I'd stay away oftener," thought Grace defiantly. The solution was an apartment of her own--another responsibility. She had almost induced Anita to share it. Anita ought to have a place in which to receive Dennis. He was worth annexing. There was a good deal lacking in him but, as Grace had told Anita, "You can't have everything. Personally, I would dispense with a lot in a man for the sake of a little charm." Yet Anita was so obstinate, so childish in some respects; she could plan and at the same time she was just as likely to disrupt all plans by a moment of inopportune revolt. Grace had offered to collect furniture from among her friends; she had offered to bear the larger share of expenses. She would have to, since Anita earned so much less.

Money, money, all this meant money! So much money for Ma instead of board, so much money for surroundings, so much for attractive clothes. Fatal to have a lover ashamed of one's background or one's appearance. And that led back to the job. If she lost her job--a slip would do it--so much of the structure so carefully raised would topple. Money. Job. Blake. Anita. Ma. As she walked, the words lost sense, threshing back and forth in her mind.

At Seventy-second Street she had to pause for the traffic to skid by. The wind from the west slapped her skirt and the damp girdled her as with a moist, penetrating arm. The windows of the farther buildings were glittering scratches, straight up and down and across mist, hieroglyphs drawn finely and exactly and meaninglessly in space. It was like being on board ship--the wind beating about one's head, the air swished with boos and restless with squeals from the boats. How small this little island squeezed up out of the water--east, west, below, beyond, on all sides, rising and tossing and throbbing and falling--no repose anywhere--one vast, moaning, mixed-up flux.

At length the traffic stopped and she went on, perilously clutching the bit of driftwood which was the pavement with little tentacles of high heels.