in fact, he hardly took his eyes off her at any time, and in a room that was mostly mirrors that was almost embarrassingly magnified. Nobody, however, seemed concerned about it, except Miss Isabel Doyle. When we were settled in various spots with enormous white and gold plates of country ham and fat broiled oysters, with crisp browned sweet potato balls, and celery braised with almonds and beaten biscuit, she was beside me.
“Mr. McClure is an unusually attractive man, isn’t he, my dear?”
I glanced at Mr. McClure. His blond rather wavy hair, his Bond Street dinner jacket, his blue Nordic eyes and little blond mustache, made Sandy, who was visible in the mirror beside him, look like nothing holy.
“Very, I should say.”
“Should you say he was interested in Karen?” Miss Isabel inquired. I don’t see how he could have helped hearing her.
I laughed.
“I do hope Roger isn’t jealous,” she said. “My dear, you wouldn’t believe it, but Roger has the most abominable temper. He’s not a bit like my dear brother—his father, you know.”
I nodded.
“I’m sure Karen will make him a perfect wife,” she went on. That was fortunately drowned in a burst of laughter from the group that surrounded Philander Doyle. Judge Candler and the Senator glanced over from the other end of the room.
“I was just saying, Senator, that it’s the Judge who ought to live in a glass house, not Karen. Inviolable integrity is wasted in a woman.”
It didn’t really sound funny enough for the peal of laughter it had brought forth. Somebody remarked that fortunately Judge Candler never threw stones, and Miss Isabel said, “You know, my dear brother has always been opposed to Roger’s passion for Karen. Isn’t it too marvellous he’s finally consented? I’ve been so afraid Roger would simply drift into a marriage with Jeremy.”
I looked at her, rather more savagely than I’d intended, I suppose.
“Oh, my dear, don’t misunderstand me. Jerry’s a lovely child, but I mean . . . really, they’re so like brother and sister.”
I glanced at the two of them, seated as far apart as the constricted actual space allowed. Jerry was very lovely, talking to the Senator’s wife, and Roger Doyle was being distressingly aloof, his eyes, like Geoffrey McClure’s, following his hostess from one small group to the other. When she came at last to Jerry and perched on the fragile arm of her chair, I saw Jerry stiffen for an instant. Then I heard her say, in her beautiful bell-clear voice, so that everyone in the room could hear:
“Karen, the bank is turning all your aircraft stock over to you in the morning, with all the back dividends.”
Karen’s voice pealed out joyously. “Darling! Aren’t you wonderful!”
“It’s Dad, not me. He couldn’t bear to think of your starving in this appalling squalor!”
If there was anything but the utmost and most engaging friendliness in any of that, it certainly wasn’t apparent to the naked ear. If it hadn’t been that Miss Isabel dropped her fork on the pale soft rug, the infinitesimal silence that met it would hardly have been noticeable at all. In the rush of male helpers I glanced in the mirror at Roger Doyle. His face had darkened alarmingly. Geoffrey McClure glanced very casually at Karen and away, and the moment was over. A kind of too gay tension had suddenly relaxed, and for the next hour a group, civilized and au courant in the affairs of the world, chatted pleasantly.
In my sudden jerk forward to catch the sweet potato ball that lodged in one of Miss Isabel’s purple bows I’d wrecked a shoulder strap. When the first guest rose to depart and there was the usual instant following of everybody who had to get back to town, I slipped upstairs to the shell-pink bathroom. But Karen’s house had nothing visible that held anything as utilitarian as a pin, and before I had the strap anchored it was too late. Outside the door I could hear the clipped Oxford speech of Geoffrey McClure.
“But it’s dishonorable, Karen, don’t you see? That sort of thing isn’t done.”
I could hear her soft voice, but not her words. And then his answer:
“Oh my dear, I love you too—madly, insanely—but we can’t, not that way. It would ruin everything—my family, our future. No, my dearest, I’d rather be dead—I’d rather see you dead.”
There was a pause then with the passionate undercurrent of Karen’s voice, and Geoffrey McClure’s again:
”No, you shan’t. It isn’t cricket, old girl—it just isn’t.”
I waited—and after a long, long time I peeked out. The gay little room was empty. From downstairs I could hear Karen’s voice, too high and too bright. I slipped down unnoticed—I hoped; certainly by Karen, who was saying goodbye at the door to Geoffrey McClure. Judge Candler and the Washingtonians had gone; only the Doyles and Jerry and Sandy were still there. Karen came back from the door.
“You haven’t seen my house, have you, Mrs. Latham? Not the business end, anyway.”
She took my arm. “This is the kitchen.”
She pushed a crystal rosette, a glass panel slid smoothly to one side.
“I’m frightfully proud of it, it’s my own idea. Oilburner, hot water.” She waved at the small green oil heating unit and the gas hot water coil and storage tank compactly installed above it. The pilot light was a pencil point of blue flame at the bottom.
“Aren’t they wonderful? I’m one of those people they advertise about—you know, that buy their fittings at a junk shop and call in the plumber to put them in. Only I didn’t buy them, a friend who’s modernizing gave them to me instead of the junk man, and I got another friend to install them. He says they’re obsolete, but they work. Not the oil burner, it’s the latest. I mean the rest of them. You’d be surprised if you knew how little it cost.—Here are the cupboards.”
She displayed stacks of neatly arranged dishes, all washed and put away.
“Jerry loaned me William, and Miss Isabel sent her maid over,” she went on.
I looked at her. She was chattering like a magpie, but her heart was not in it.
“Oh, here’s my tonic,” she said. She picked up a glass of milk from a silver tray on the neat little metal sink and drank it, making a charming face, and put it down again, smiling brighty.
“It’s all marvellous,” I said.
We went back into the white room. The others had gone upstairs for their wraps; I could hear them talking and laughing. Then I heard another and quite different sound, closer by, a definite and very plaintive “Meow, meow!” I turned around. Karen broke into a peal of laughter.
“Come in, Mrs. Harris,” she called.
A small Siamese cat of a lovely café-au-lait shade stalked in from the kitchen, rubbing her back against the panel edge, purring heavily.
“I had to hide her tonight,” Karen said. “Miss Isabel hates cats. Come to Karen, beautiful.”
She picked the cat up just as everybody came down the narrow stairs
