Conspicuous at the dance was Mrs. Winnie, in a glorious electric-blue silk gown. And she shook her fan at Montague, exclaiming, “You wretched man—you promised to come and see me!”
“I’ve been out of town,” Montague protested.
“Well, come to dinner to-morrow night,” said Mrs. Winnie. “There’ll be some bridge fiends.”
“You forget I haven’t learned to play,” he objected.
“Well, come anyhow,” she replied. “We’ll teach you. I’m no player myself, and my husband will be there, and he’s good-natured; and my brother Dan—he’ll have to be whether he likes it or not.”
So Montague visited the Snow Palace again, and met Winton Duval, the banker,—a tall, military-looking man of about fifty, with a big grey moustache, and bushy eyebrows, and the head of a lion. His was one of the city’s biggest banking-houses, and in alliance with powerful interests in the Street. At present he was going in for mines in Mexico and South America, and so he was very seldom at home. He was a man of most rigid habits—he would come back unexpectedly after a month’s trip, and expect to find everything ready for him, both at home and in his office, as if he had just stepped round the corner. Montague observed that he took his menu-card and jotted down his comments upon each dish, and then sent it down to the chef. Other people’s dinners he very seldom attended, and when his wife gave her entertainments, he invariably dined at the club.
He pleaded a business engagement for the evening; and as brother Dan did not appear, Montague did not learn any bridge. The other four guests settled down to the game, and Montague and Mrs. Winnie sat and chatted, basking before the fireplace in the great entrance-hall.
“Have you seen Charlie Carter?” was the first question she asked him.
“Not lately,” he answered; “I met him at Harvey’s.”
“I know that,” said she. “They tell me he got drunk.”
“I’m afraid he did,” said Montague.
“Poor boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Winnie. “And Alice saw him! He must be heartbroken!”
Montague said nothing. “You know,” she went on, “Charlie really means well. He has honestly an affectionate nature.”
She paused; and Montague Said, vaguely, “I suppose so.”
“You don’t like him,” said the other. “I can see that. And I suppose now Alice will have no use for him, either. And I had it all fixed up for her to reform him!”
Montague smiled in spite of himself.
“Oh, I know,” said she. “It wouldn’t have been easy. But you’ve no idea what a beautiful boy Charlie used to be, until all the women set to work to ruin him.”
“I can imagine it,” said Montague; but he did not warm to the subject.
“You’re just like my husband,” said Mrs. Winnie, sadly. “You have no use at all for anything that’s weak or unfortunate.”
There was a pause. “And I suppose,” she said finally, “you’ll be turning into a business man also—with no time for anybody or anything. Have you begun yet?”
“Not yet,” he answered. “I’m still looking round.”
“I haven’t the least idea about business,” she confessed. “How does one begin at it?”
“I can’t say I know that myself as yet,” said Montague, laughing.
“Would you like to be a protege of my husband’s?” she asked.
The proposition was rather sudden, but he answered, with a smile, “I should have no objections. What would he do with me?”
“I don’t know that. But he can do whatever he wants down town. And he’d show you how to make a lot of money if I asked him to.” Then Mrs. Winnie added, quickly, “I mean it—he could do it, really.”
“I haven’t the least doubt of it,” responded Montague.
“And what’s more,” she went on, “you don’t want to be shy about taking advantage of the opportunities that come to you. You’ll find you won’t get along in New York unless you go right in and grab what you can. People will be quick enough to take advantage of you.”
“They have all been very kind to me so far,” said he. “But when I get ready for business, I’ll harden my heart.”
Mrs. Winnie sat lost in meditation. “I think business is dreadful,” she said. “So much hard work and worry! Why can’t men learn to get along without it?”
“There are bills that have to be paid,” Montague replied.
“It’s our dreadfully extravagant way of life,” exclaimed the other. “Sometimes I wish I had never had any money in my life.”
“You would soon tire of it,” said he. “You would miss this house.”
“I should not miss it a bit,” said Mrs. Winnie, promptly. “That is really the truth—I don’t care for this sort of thing at all. I’d like to live simply, and without so many cares and responsibilities. And some day I’m going to do it, too—I really am. I’m going to get myself a little farm, away off somewhere in the country. And I’m going there to live and raise chickens and vegetables, and have my own flower-gardens, that I can take care of myself. It will all be plain and simple—” and then Mrs. Winnie stopped short, exclaiming, “You are laughing at me!”
“Not at all!” said Montague. “But I couldn’t help thinking about the newspaper reporters—”
“There you are!” said she. “One can never have a beautiful dream, or try to do anything sensible—because of the newspaper reporters!”
If Montague had been meeting Mrs. Winnie Duval for the first time, he would have been impressed by her yearnings for the simple life; he would have thought it an important sign of the times. But alas, he knew by this time that his charming hostess had more flummery about her than anybody else he had encountered—and all of her own devising! Mrs. Winnie smoked her own private brand of cigarettes, and when she offered them to you, there were the arms of the old ducal house of Montmorenci on the wrappers! And when you got a letter from Mrs. Winnie, you observed a three-cent stamp upon the envelope—for lavender was her colour, and two-cent stamps were an atrocious red! So one might feel certain that it Mrs. Winnie ever went in for chicken-raising, the chickens would be especially imported from China or Patagonia, and the chicken-coops would be precise replicas of those in the old Chateau de Montmorenci which she had visited in her automobile.
But Mrs. Winnie was beautiful, and quite entertaining to talk to, and so he was respectfully sympathetic while she told him about her pastoral intentions. And then she told him about Mrs. Caroline Smythe, who had called a meeting of her friends at one of the big hotels, and organized a society and founded the “Bide-a-Wee Home” for destitute cats. After that she switched off into psychic research—somebody had taken her to a seance, where grave college professors and ladies in spectacles sat round and waited for ghosts to materialize. It was Mrs. Winnie’s first experience at this, and she was as excited as a child who has just found the key to the jam-closet. “I hardly knew whether to laugh or to be afraid,” she said. “What would you think?”
“You may have the pleasure of giving me my first impressions of it,” said Montague, with a laugh.
“Well,” said she, “they had table-tipping—and it was the most uncanny thing to see the table go jumping about the room! And then there were raps—and one can’t imagine how strange it was to see people who really believed they were getting messages from ghosts. It positively made my flesh creep. And then this woman—Madame Somebody-or-other—went into a trance—ugh! Afterward I talked with one of the men, and he told me about how his father had appeared to him in the night and told him he had just been drowned at sea. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”