Having nothing else to do, she spent several hours in trying various toilets.She was not long in deciding against disguising herself as a working woman.That garb might win his mental and moral approval; but not by mental and moral ways did women and men prevail with each other.In plain garb--so Jane decided, as she inspected herself--she was no match for Selma Gordon; she looked awkward, out of her element.So much being settled, there remained to choose among her various toilets.She decided for an embroidered white summer dress, extremely simple, but in the way that costs beyond the power of any but the very rich to afford.
When she was ready to set forth, she had never looked so well in her life.Her toilet SEEMED a mere detail.In fact, it was some such subtlety as those arrangements of lines and colors in great pictures, whereby the glance of the beholder is unconsciously compelled toward the central figure, just as water in a funnel must go toward the aperture at the bottom.Jane felt, not without reason, that she had executed a stroke of genius.She was wearing nothing that could awaken Victor Dorn's prejudices about fine clothes, for he must have those prejudices.Yet she was dressed in conformity with all that centuries, ages of experience, have taught the dressmaking art on the subject of feminine allure.And, when a woman feels that she is so dressed, her natural allure becomes greatly enhanced.
She drove down to a point in Monroe Avenue not far from the house where Victor and his family lived.The day was hot; boss-ridden Remsen City had dusty and ragged streets and sidewalks.It, therefore, would not do to endanger the freshness of the toilet.
But she would arrive as if she had come all the way on foot.
Arrival in a motor at so humble a house would look like ostentation; also, if she were seen going through that street afoot, people would think she was merely strolling a little out of her way to view the ruins of the buildings set on fire by the mob.She did pause to look at these ruins; the air of the neighborhood still had a taint of burnt wood and paper.
Presently, when she was sure the street was clear of people of the sort who might talk--she hastily entered the tiny front yard of Victor's house, and was pleased to find herself immediately screened from the street by the luxuriant bushes and creepers.
There was nothing in the least pretentious about the appearance of the little house.It was simply a well built cottage--but of brick, instead of the usual wood, and the slate roof descended at attractive angles.The door she was facing was superior to the usual flimsy-looking door.Indeed, she at once became conscious of a highly attractive and most unexpected air of substantiality and good taste.The people who lived here seemed to be permanent people--long resident, and looking forward to long residence.
She had never seen such beautiful or such tastefully grouped sun flowers, and the dahlias and marigolds were far above the familiar commonplace kitchen garden flowers.
The door opened, and a handsome, extremely intelligent looking woman, obviously Victor's sister, was looking pleasantly at her.
Said she: ``I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.But I was busy in the kitchen.This is Miss Hastings, isn't it?''
``Yes,'' said Jane, smiling friendlily.
``I've heard my brother and Selma talk of you.'' (Jane wondered WHAT they had said.) ``You wish to see Victor?''
``If I'd not be interrupting,'' said Jane.
``Come right in.He's used to being interrupted.They don't give him five minutes to himself all day long--especially now that the campaign's on.He always does his serious work very early in the morning.''
They went through a hall, pleasantly odorous of baking in which good flour and good butter and good eggs were being manufactured into something probably appetizing, certainly wholesome.Jane caught a glimpse through open doors on either side of a neat and reposeful little library-sitting room, a plain delightfully simple little bedroom, a kitchen where everything shone.She arrived at the rear door somehow depressed, bereft of the feeling of upper-class superiority which had, perhaps unconsciously, possessed her as she came toward the house.At the far end of an arbor on which the grape vines were so trellised that their broad leaves cast a perfect shade, sat Victor writing at a table under a tree.He was in his shirt sleeves, and his shirt was open at the throat.His skin was smooth and healthily white below the collar line.The forearms exposed by his rolled up sleeves were strong but slender, and the faint fair hair upon them suggested a man, but not an animal.
Never had she seen his face and head so fine.He was writing rapidly, his body easily erect, his head and neck in a poise of grace and strength.Jane grew pale and trembled--so much so that she was afraid the keen, friendly eyes of Alice Sherrill were seeing.Said Mrs.Sherrill, raising her voice:
``Victor--here's Miss Hastings come to see you.'' Then to Jane:
``Excuse me, please.I don't dare leave that kitchen long.''
She departed.Jane waited while Victor, his pencil reluctantly slackening and his glance lingeringly rising from the paper, came back to sense of his surroundings.He stared at her blankly, then colored a little.He rose--stiff, for him formal.Said he:
``How d'you do, Miss Hastings?''
She came down the arbor, recovering her assurance as she again became conscious of herself, so charmingly dressed and no doubt beautiful in his eyes.``I know you're not glad to see me,''
said she.``But I'm only stopping a very little minute.''
His eyes had softened--softened under the influence of the emotion no man can ever fail to feel at least in some degree at sight of a lovely woman.``Won't you sit?'' said he, with a glance at the wooden chair near the other side of the table.
