AT this time Vane was not in the habit of thinking about women. He had found life particularly serious, and girls were not serious. Somewhat fatuously, perhaps, he fancied no woman under thirty could either understand him, or arouse his own interest. And most of the women over thirty were married. He understood that in America any intimacy with married women was out of the question; married women were quite given up to domestic duties, and kept out of society.
But Vane had certain theories of his own as to social observances, and he thought it his duty, after taking Miss Thomas in to dinner, to call upon her. He performed this duty (which afterwards became a pleasure) upon the following afternoon. He found her in a somewhat dingy house on East Fifteenth Street, but, though the setting was dull and commonplace, herself was even prettier than he remembered her, and simply and charmingly dressed. Vane was no amateur of bric-à-brac; he had no auctioneer’s eye, and, if a room was in perfect taste, did not commonly notice it at all; but glaring faults would force themselves upon him, and he could not help observing that, with the exception of the daughter’s dress, the household showed no evidence of knowledge of what is good in literature, art, or taste.
Except Miss Thomas. Always except Miss Thomas herself. She received him with much grace of manner, but seemed to have very little to say. Vane found that he had to talk largely against time; and this rather disappointed him at first. At first, but afterwards he decided that he liked this still mood best. There was no dimple and sparkle, but it was quiet and companionable. She is not like “a young lady,” Vane thought; still less like a French young lady. She is neither ingénue nor formée; she is young, bright, a good fellow. One might play Paul to her Francesca without a dénouement. How could he have thought her ill-trained? Though she had evidently thought little, read less, and been taught nothing at all, she had a sweet natural elegance of her own. Vane found time to observe all this between his sentences. They were not very well connected.
Was he going to Mrs. Roster’s ball? she had asked.—No, he thought not. He did not know her.—He had better go. Every one would be there.
“Then I fear I am no one,” said Vane. “I am not even invited.” He was sorry to fancy that her interest in him flagged a little after this. She had met him at a good house, but, after all, he might be a mere protégé of John Haviland’s. Mr. Haviland was always picking up queer people. A moment after this Vane took his leave.
Why should he not go to Mrs. Roster’s? he said to himself. He could not always be brooding on the addled eggs of the past. After all, the world was all that was left him, and in the world the dance still went on merrily, and maidens’ eyes were bright; leaves still were green, and the foam of the sea as white as ever, and wine still sparkled in the glass. He said this to himself with a somewhat sceptical grin, for, like most Frenchmen with whom he had lived, he took little pleasure in drinking. A Frenchman drinks to go to the devil: he rarely goes to the devil because he drinks. Yet he was, or at all events he had been, fond of society. He had liked light and gay faces, and bright conversation, and heartlessness—if there must be heartlessness—masked under suave manners and intellectual sympathy. Out of society the heartlessness was just as real, he had used to think, only ruder; there is at least as much snobbishness, and it is more offensively vulgar. He could not stay always out from all society. He must find something to pull him back into the world; he must get some grip of life. Hitherto his only foothold had been his clear necessity of making eighteen thousand francs a year to send to his mother.
He could probably have persuaded himself with much less reasoning if he had not had a secret inclination to go; but, as it was, he reasoned himself into it, and thought that he thought it was a bore. So he went to Mrs. Roster’s ball. Of course he admired the beauty of American women; the beauty of American women is like the Hudson River; one is bound to prefer it to the Rhine. He thought the party was very pretty and the dancing beautifully done, and, moreover, he made the acquaintance of several young ladies of quite a different type than Miss Thomas’s. They had plenty of breeding and intelligence, and talked the latest slang of culture to perfection, and were evidently of the great world, if they had not quite so much charm as she. Still none of these, as yet, were essentially American, or even very deeply English, though they dabbled in it.
Miss Thomas herself, for some reason unknown to Vane, did not receive quite so much attention as he had fancied that she would. It was not her fault, for she was charmingly dressed and never looked prettier.
As he was ready to leave he met her, for the first time, coming down the stairs in wraps and wanting her carriage.
“You have not spoken to me the whole evening,” said she softly, as she took his arm.
“I was afraid to, mademoiselle,” said Vane, half jocosely.
“Come to-morrow,” she whispered seriously. “It is my day for receiving, and I shall be so glad to see you.” Vane bowed his thanks, and the next moments were occupied in conveying herself and skirts safely into the coupé. As he was about to shut the door she extended her hand frankly: “You will come, won’t you?” Vane was a little puzzled; he took her hand awkwardly, and muttered something about being only too delighted. He had no experience whatever of American women, much less American girls. Why should she so particularly wish to see him? He called the next day, expecting to learn, but in that he was doomed to disappointment. Apparently Miss Thomas, if she had any reason, had forgotten it; she had very little to say, and the call was quite conventional and commonplace. “Bah!” he thought, as he walked home. “Here I have wasted half an afternoon over this girl simply because she asked me. Doubtless she herself had nothing better to do than waste it over me.” And perhaps he added secretly that his life was something more serious than hers, and, at all events, he had no mind for light flirtation.