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henresolveditselfintoabonnet,andthecountenanceofastoutoldladybeameddownintotheroom.SeveraloldcopiesofTownTattlelayonthetabletogetherwithacopyofSimonCalledPeter,andsomeofthesmallscandalmagazinesofBroadway.Mrs.Wilsonwasfirstconcernedwiththedog.Areluctantelevatorboywentforaboxfullofstrawandsomemilk,towhichheaddedonhisowninitiativeatinoflarge,harddogbiscuits—oneofwhichdecomposedapatheticallyinthesaucerofmilkallafternoon.MeanwhileTombroughtoutabottleofwhiskyfromalockedbureaudoor.
Ihavebeendrunkjusttwiceinmylife,andthesecondtimewasthatafternoonsoeverythingthathappenedhasadim,hazycastoverit,althoughuntilaftereighto’clocktheapartmentwasfullofcheerfulsun.SittingonTom’slapMrs.Wilsoncalledupseveralpeopleonthetelephonethentherewerenocigarettes,andIwentouttobuysomeatthedrugstoreonthecorner.WhenIcamebacktheyhadbothdisappeared,soIsatdowndiscreetlyintheliving-roomandreadachapterofSimonCalledPeter—eitheritwasterriblestufforthewhiskydistortedthings,becauseitdidn’tmakeanysensetome.
JustasTomandMyrtle(afterthefirstdrinkMrs.WilsonandIcalledeachotherbyourfirstnames)reappeared,companycommencedtoarriveattheapartmentdoor.
Thesister,Catherine,wasaslender,worldlygirlofaboutthirty,withasolid,stickybobofredhair,andacomplexionpowderedmilkywhite.Hereyebrowshadbeenpluckedandthendrawnonagainatamorerakishangle,buttheeffortsofnaturetowardtherestorationoftheoldalignmentgaveablurredairtoherface.Whenshemovedabouttherewasanincessantclickingasinnumerablepotterybraceletsjingledupanddownuponherarms.Shecameinwithsuchaproprietaryhaste,andlookedaroundsopossessivelyatthefurniturethatIwonderedifshelivedhere.ButwhenIaskedhershelaughedimmoderately,repeatedmyquestionaloud,andtoldmeshelivedwithagirlfriendatahotel.
Mr.McKeewasapale,femininemanfromtheflatbelow.Hehadjustshaved,fortherewasawhitespotoflatheronhischeekbone,andhewasmostrespectfulinhisgreetingtoeveryoneintheroom.Heinformedmethathewasinthe“artisticgame,”andIgatheredlaterthathewasaphotographerandhadmadethedimenlargementofMrs.Wilson’smotherwhichhoveredlikeanectoplasmonthewall.Hiswifewasshrill,languid,handsome,andhorrible.Shetoldmewithpridethatherhusbandhadphotographedherahundredandtwenty-seventimessincetheyhadbeenmarried.
Mrs.Wilsonhadchangedhercostumesometimebefore,andwasnowattiredinanelaborateafternoondressofcream-colouredchiffon,whichgaveoutacontinualrustleasshesweptabouttheroom.Withtheinfluenceofthedressherpersonalityhadalsoundergoneachange.Theintensevitalitythathadbeensoremarkableinthegaragewasconvertedintoimpressivehauteur.Herlaughter,hergestures,herassertionsbecamemoreviolentlyaffectedmomentbymoment,andassheexpandedtheroomgrewsmalleraroundher,untilsheseemedtoberevolvingonanoisy,creakingpivotthroughthesmokyair.
“Mydear,”shetoldhersisterinahigh,mincingshout,“mostofthesefellaswillcheatyoueverytime.Alltheythinkofismoney.Ihadawomanupherelastweektolookatmyfeet,andwhenshegavemethebillyou’dofthoughtshehadmyappendicitisout.”
“Whatwasthenameofthewoman?”askedMrs.McKee.
“Mrs.Eberhardt.Shegoesaroundlookingatpeople’sfeetintheirownhomes.”
“Ilikeyourdress,”remarkedMrs.McKee,“Ithinkit’sadorable.”
Mrs.Wilsonrejectedthecomplimentbyraisinghereyebrowindisdain.
“It’sjustacrazyoldthing,”shesaid.“IjustslipitonsometimeswhenIdon’tcarewhatIlooklike.”
“Butitlookswonderfulonyou,ifyouknowwhatImean,”pursuedMrs.McKee.“IfChestercouldonlygetyouinthatposeIthinkhecouldmakesomethingofit.”
WealllookedinsilenceatMrs.Wilson,whoremovedastrandofhairfromoverhereyesandlookedbackatuswithabrilliantsmile.Mr.McKeeregardedherintentlywithhisheadononeside,andthenmovedhishandbackandforthslowlyinfrontofhisface.
“Ishouldchangethelight,”hesaidafteramoment.“I’dliketobringoutthemodellingofthefeatures.AndI’dtrytogetholdofallthebackhair.”
“Iwouldn’tthinkofchangingthelight,”criedMrs.McKee.“Ithinkit’s—”
Herhusbandsaid“Sh!”andwealllookedatthesubjectagain,whereuponTomBuchananyawnedaudiblyandgottohisfeet.
“YouMcKeeshavesomethingtodrink,”hesaid.“Getsomemoreiceandmineralwate
