bushes! When I've had one tiny kiss! And when I
think
what we've spied going on in corners and behind stairways this weekend!"
"That wasn't the party," he said stubbornly.
It was the end of her exhilaration; there would be no more of that now. She felt only disgust with the whole visit and with herself for having accepted Grant's invitation in the first place. On the dance floor he was sullenly silent, hoping that someone would cut in, but not sanguine about it. She looked up to see his mother sitting on the balcony with the other chaperones. Mrs. DeVoe waived to her gaily.
"I'm going up to sit with your mother for a bit. You can dance with some of these lovelies. But be sure they don't lure you out on the terrace!"
Mrs. DeVoe remonstrated volubly at the idea of Natica's leaving the dance floor to talk with "an old woman like me," but when Natica insisted, she was happy to tell her how she had been employing her time on the balcony.
"I'm keeping count of the number of times the more popular girls are cut in on. Of course, my dear, you're subjecting yourself to a severe handicap by being up here."
"Oh me. I wouldn't have a chance anyway." She marveled at this manifestation of Mrs. DeVoe's relentless competitiveness and wondered if it mightn't explain some things about Edith and even Grant. "I don't know anybody but Grant and Lev."
"Pish! A pretty face and a good figure are what they're after. Oh, look!" Her eye had not left the dance floor. "The Sargent girl has been cut in on again. I wonder what she's got that's so alluring."
"Mrs. DeVoe?"
"Yes, dear?" The brown, oddly noble face under the high crown of loosely gathered auburn hair, too noble, really, for her present occupation, perhaps for any of her occupations, was turned now to Natica.
"I want you to know how deeply I appreciate all your kindness ⺠tome.
"Don't be a goose. It's been my pleasure. And now you should go down to that dance floor and wow all those nice young men."
Mrs. DeVoe turned resolutely back to her game, and Natica was left to sit silently by her side. She was overcome with a sense of dry desolation. She wanted to love and be loved by Mrs. DeVoe. She wanted to throw her arms around her, to hug and be hugged. But that could never be. If the older woman should catch even a glimpse of how passionately she coveted all the things that Mrs. DeVoe, having them, could afford to regard as the mere externals, the mere decorating externals, of the essentially good inner life, she would turn her back with scorn on her as a climber, a schemer, a sinister watcher from the dark street of the lighted festival within.
Gazing down at the agitation of a rumba on the floor below, Natica knew with an ache in her heart that her trouble was that she saw herself just as she was and at the same time saw the different image that she managed at times to create in the eyes of others. She saw herself as doomed to wear a mask, and were not masks in the end almost invariably detected? Life's trophies went to the self-deceived or to those who were capable of deceiving with relish. Armed with a fatuous complacency or a fuzzy emotionalism, she might make her way into the society that so dazzled her imagination without in any way impressing her intellect. But the girl who saw her own story unfolding chapters ahead of where she was placed in it was headed for an unhappy ending. Why? Because she saw the ending, and, seeing it, had already composed it.
What could she do but write? Ah, yes! She clung to the old salvation, pressed it to herself. Hadn't Jessie Ives in her spitefulness offered her a character for a story as good as the snooty Blanche Ingram, who had made life so miserable for Jane Eyre?
Grant unexpectedly appeared behind her. Was she ready to go back to the floor? Of course, he could hardly abandon the girl he had invited and who had been brought up to school by his mother.
"I'll be keeping score," Mrs. DeVoe said cheerfully.
It turned out that Natica had
think
what we've spied going on in corners and behind stairways this weekend!"
"That wasn't the party," he said stubbornly.
It was the end of her exhilaration; there would be no more of that now. She felt only disgust with the whole visit and with herself for having accepted Grant's invitation in the first place. On the dance floor he was sullenly silent, hoping that someone would cut in, but not sanguine about it. She looked up to see his mother sitting on the balcony with the other chaperones. Mrs. DeVoe waived to her gaily.
"I'm going up to sit with your mother for a bit. You can dance with some of these lovelies. But be sure they don't lure you out on the terrace!"
Mrs. DeVoe remonstrated volubly at the idea of Natica's leaving the dance floor to talk with "an old woman like me," but when Natica insisted, she was happy to tell her how she had been employing her time on the balcony.
"I'm keeping count of the number of times the more popular girls are cut in on. Of course, my dear, you're subjecting yourself to a severe handicap by being up here."
"Oh me. I wouldn't have a chance anyway." She marveled at this manifestation of Mrs. DeVoe's relentless competitiveness and wondered if it mightn't explain some things about Edith and even Grant. "I don't know anybody but Grant and Lev."
"Pish! A pretty face and a good figure are what they're after. Oh, look!" Her eye had not left the dance floor. "The Sargent girl has been cut in on again. I wonder what she's got that's so alluring."
"Mrs. DeVoe?"
"Yes, dear?" The brown, oddly noble face under the high crown of loosely gathered auburn hair, too noble, really, for her present occupation, perhaps for any of her occupations, was turned now to Natica.
"I want you to know how deeply I appreciate all your kindness ⺠tome.
"Don't be a goose. It's been my pleasure. And now you should go down to that dance floor and wow all those nice young men."
Mrs. DeVoe turned resolutely back to her game, and Natica was left to sit silently by her side. She was overcome with a sense of dry desolation. She wanted to love and be loved by Mrs. DeVoe. She wanted to throw her arms around her, to hug and be hugged. But that could never be. If the older woman should catch even a glimpse of how passionately she coveted all the things that Mrs. DeVoe, having them, could afford to regard as the mere externals, the mere decorating externals, of the essentially good inner life, she would turn her back with scorn on her as a climber, a schemer, a sinister watcher from the dark street of the lighted festival within.
Gazing down at the agitation of a rumba on the floor below, Natica knew with an ache in her heart that her trouble was that she saw herself just as she was and at the same time saw the different image that she managed at times to create in the eyes of others. She saw herself as doomed to wear a mask, and were not masks in the end almost invariably detected? Life's trophies went to the self-deceived or to those who were capable of deceiving with relish. Armed with a fatuous complacency or a fuzzy emotionalism, she might make her way into the society that so dazzled her imagination without in any way impressing her intellect. But the girl who saw her own story unfolding chapters ahead of where she was placed in it was headed for an unhappy ending. Why? Because she saw the ending, and, seeing it, had already composed it.
What could she do but write? Ah, yes! She clung to the old salvation, pressed it to herself. Hadn't Jessie Ives in her spitefulness offered her a character for a story as good as the snooty Blanche Ingram, who had made life so miserable for Jane Eyre?
Grant unexpectedly appeared behind her. Was she ready to go back to the floor? Of course, he could hardly abandon the girl he had invited and who had been brought up to school by his mother.
"I'll be keeping score," Mrs. DeVoe said cheerfully.
It turned out that Natica had
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