THE Pleydens lived in a double apartment on Park Avenue and until lately the large drawing-room had resounded with jazz at least once a week. During the winter Mrs. Pleyden gave two musical evenings, a large dinner once a fortnight, followed by bridge, and numerous luncheons. She had no intention of retiring to a backwater, and Polly, to do her justice, never demanded the ignominy and even asked a few of her friends to the concerts.
Tonight, although it was late in the season, a large company was assembled, and several of the women wore tiaras—less ponderous than Gita’s heirloom, however—supported their chins with high diamond collars, and clung to the elaborate coiffure of the past; but others, like Mrs. Pleyden—still in her forties despite two married daughters—covered their ears, indulged in a permanent wave, or arranged their hair in the manner best suited to their individual style.
Mrs. Pleyden wore a jeweled band above her eyebrows, and her gown of eucalyptus-green satin embroidered with silver finished eight inches above the instep and was as modish as Polly’s. A short string of pearls clasped the base of her throat, and at the end of a long chain of platinum and small diamonds she carried a lorgnette. Her eyes were still clear and bright but growing defective in vision, and although lorgnettes were no longer employed to annihilate they were useful for casual print.
Her concerts were always events, for she had the fine taste in music of educated New Yorkers, and a liberal understanding with stars of the opera and concert stage. The musicians performed on a raised dais at the end of the long room, and the guests sat as comfortably as might be on rows of gilt chairs. The decorations were yellow chrysanthemums, and a soft golden light was becoming to complexions both sacred and profane. Mr. Pleyden was not present. He was the able and industrious president of a railroad system and spent his evenings in his library reading detective stories.
But Mrs. Pleyden looked less placid than usual as she stood by the door receiving late guests while a coloratura warbled. Her eyes wandered to Polly, who sat in a niche by the chimneypiece with Dr. Pelham. Her brilliant restless daughter merely blew rings in her face when, forgetting diplomacy, she remonstrated or probed lightly; and refused to discuss the subject. Mrs. Pleyden was not as worldly as the mothers of her own youth but she drew the line at obscure surgeons whose parents she had never met. That he was the highly esteemed associate of Dr. Gaunt, whose mother wore a tiara in the front row, and whose wife was her intimate friend, in no way tempered the misfortune that threatened the house of Pleyden. He might be a famous surgeon himself twenty years hence but at present he was a nobody; and although girls sometimes married young men obliged to toil and economize, and were content to live in unfashionable neighborhoods, saved from complete ignominy by one servant, it was always with a husband of their own class, and their position was still as assured as that of their friends with spectacular American incomes. But Mrs. Pleyden had seen enough of Geoffrey Pelham to comprehend that if Polly married him she would drop out. It was only too plain that society bored him, and if her dainty and fastidious daughter accomplished what looked to be a fell purpose her flat in the Bronx would be as disconcerting to her old friends as that dreadful house on States Avenue, Atlantic City. Her father would be willing to give her a large allowance, but Pelham was not the man to live on his wife, and she knew that he contributed to the support of his mother and sister. The future looked dark and dubious. She had seen Polly interested before but never serious.
And then she noticed that Pelham, whose ear was bent to Polly’s irreverent whisperings, was looking at Gita Bylant. Staring at her. His eyes looked bedazzled. She was convinced that he had not yet asked Polly to marry him, and although he was obviously attracted by her, he had never, to Mrs. Pleyden’s experienced eye, given the impression of a man desperately in love. She had concluded that the pursuit was Polly’s, but it was a conclusion that had given her little solace. Polly was born to have her way.
But at this moment her heart gave a throb of mingled hope and resentment. Although she disapproved of Gita more than ever, since that refractory charge preferred the society of what her own set persisted in calling bohemians, to the exalted circles into which, true to her promise, she had launched her, the creature might have her uses; and if she chose to exert her wiles on Geoffrey Pelham, so much the better.
Eustace was able to take care of himself.
But Gita, after a smile and nod to both Polly and Dr. Pelham, had devoted herself raptly to the music.
The musical program lasted but an hour and a half. As the company moved toward the dining-room Gita found herself beside Geoffrey Pelham, who had surrendered Polly to Park Leonard, a new and increasingly determined admirer. Gita noted under her eyelashes that he more nearly filled Polly’s old ideal than any of her numerous court, certainly far more than Geoffrey Pelham. He was a partner in his father’s eminent law firm, and in spite of a personal fortune, was ambitious, active and diligent, going rarely into society and never to jazz parties. He had met Polly at a dinner to which he had been enticed by his sister, and his attentions, at first sporadic, had of late grown assiduous. He had dark hair and gray eyes, clean features almost sharp, and a square chin. His devotion to the law in no way interfered with his grooming, and as he took quiet possession of Polly it would have been difficult to find a couple so at one in breeding and so complementary in looks.
Polly found him useful as a red rag, and nodded indifferently to Pelham as she gave Leonard permission to sit beside her at supper. That Gita’s black eyes had played havoc in Geoffrey’s unsusceptible heart had never entered her mind.