tion>Mary Roberts Rinehart
Affinities, and Other Stories
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4057664577566
Table of Contents
AFFINITIES
I
Somebody ought to know the truth about the Devil's Island affair and I am going to tell it. The truth is generally either better or worse than the stories that get about. In this case it is somewhat better, though I am not proud of it.
It started with a discussion about married women having men friends. I said I thought it was a positive duty—it kept them up to the mark with their clothes and gave a sort of snap to things, without doing any harm. There were six of us on the terrace at the Country Club at the time and we all felt the same way—that it was fun to have somebody that everybody expected to put by one at dinners, and to sit out dances with and like the way one did one's hair, and to say nice things.
"And to slip out on the links for a moonlight chat with you," said Annette, who is rather given to those little pastimes, the most harmless in the world.
We were all awfully bored that Sunday afternoon. Most of the men were golfing; and when you meet the same people all the time—day after day, dinner after dinner, dance after dance—anything new is welcome. Really the only variety we had was a new drink now and then. Some one would come home from his vacation with a brand-new idea in beverages and order one all round, and it was a real sensation.
That was all we had had all summer for excitement, except the time Willie Anderson kissed Sybilla—she was his wife—on a wager. They had been rather cool to each other for a month or so.
We would sit on the terrace and the conversation would be about like this:
"There's the Jacksons' car."
"Why on earth does Ida Jackson wear green?"
"Hello, Ida! When d'you get back?"
"Yesterday. Bully time!"
Just in time to save us from utter boredom somebody would yawn and remark:
"Here comes the Henderson car."
"Jane Henderson's put on weight. She's as big as a house! Hello, Jane!"
"Hello, everybody! My goodness! Why did I come back? Isn't it hot?"
More excitement for a minute and then more yawns. It was Ferd Jackson who suggested the affinity party. He had heard about what I had said on the terrace, and he came to me while Day was playing on the links. Day is my husband.
"Had a nice afternoon?" he asked.
"Only fair. Day's been underfoot most of the time. Why?"
"How'd you like a picnic?"
"I would not!" I said decisively. "I hate cold food and motoring in a procession until you choke with dust—and Day getting jealous and disagreeable and wanting to get home early."
"Poor little girl!" said Ferd, and patted my hand in a friendly way.
Ferd was a good scout always; we got along together pretty well and sat together at dinners whenever we could. He never made love to me or anything like that, but he understood me thoroughly, which Day never took the trouble to do. It is absurd, now that it's all over, to have the others saying he was my affinity or anything of the sort. I never cared for him.
"I didn't mean the usual sort of picnic," Ferd said. "How has it got its pretty hair fixed to-day? Rather nice, lady-love; but why do you hide
