``Hugo would as soon think of going in the street in a--in a--Idon't know what.''
``Hugo is the finest flower of American gentleman.That is, he's the quintessence of everything that's nice --and `nasty.' I wish I were married to him for a week.I love Hugo, but he gives me the creeps.'' She rose and tramped restlessly about the room.
``You both give me the creeps.Everything conventional gives me the creeps.If I'm not careful I'll dress myself in a long shirt, let down my hair and run wild.''
``What nonsense you do talk,'' said Martha composedly.
Jane sat down abruptly.``So I do!'' she said.``I'm as poor a creature as you at bottom.I simply like to beat against the bars of my cage to make myself think I'm a wild, free bird by nature.If you opened the door, I'd not fly out, but would hop meekly back to my perch and fall to smoothing my feathers....
Tell me some more about Victor Dorn.''
``I told you he isn't fit to talk about,'' said Martha.``Do you know, they say now that he is carrying on with that shameless, brazen thing who writes for his paper, that Selma Gordon?''
``Selma Gordon,'' echoed Jane.Her brows came down in a gesture reminiscent of her father, and there was a disagreeable expression about her mouth and in her light brown eyes.``Who's Selma Gordon?''
``She makes speeches--and writes articles against rich people--and--oh, she's horrid.''
``Pretty?''
``No--a scrawny, black thing.The men--some of them--say she's got a kind of uncanny fascination.Some even insist that she's beautiful.'' Martha laughed.``Beautiful! How could a woman with black hair and a dark skin and no flesh on her bones be beautiful?''
``It has been known to happen,'' said Jane curtly.``Is she one of THE Gordons?''
``Mercy, no!'' cried Martha Galland.``She simply took the name of Gordon--that is, her father did.He was a Russian peasant--a Jew.And he fell in love with a girl who was of noble family--a princess, I think.''
``Princess doesn't mean much in Russia,'' said Jane sourly.
``Anyhow, they ran away to this country.And he worked in the rolling mill here--and they both died-- and Selma became a factory girl--and then took to writing for the New Day--that's Victor Dorn's paper, you know.''
``How romantic,'' said Jane sarcastically.``And now Victor Dorn's in love with her?''
``I didn't say that,'' replied Martha, with a scandal-smile.
Jane Hastings went to the window and gazed out into the garden.
Martha resumed her habitual warm day existence--sat rocking gently and fanning herself and looking leisurely about the room.
Presently she said:
``Jane, why don't you marry Davy Hull?''
No answer.
``He's got an independent income--so there's no question of his marrying for money.And there isn't any family anywhere that's better than his--mighty few as good.And he's DEAD in love with you, Jen.''
With her back still turned Jane snapped, ``I'd rather marry Victor Dorn.''
``What OUTRAGEOUS things you do say!'' cried Martha.
``I envy that black Jewess--that--what's her name? --that Selma Gordon.''
``You don't even know them,'' said Martha.
Jane wheeled round with a strange laugh.``Don't I?'' cried she.
``I don't know anyone else.''
She strode to her sister and tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the riding stick.
``Be careful,'' cautioned Martha.``You know how easily my flesh mars--and I'm going to wear my low neck to-night.''
Jane did not heed.``David Hull is a bore--and a fraud,'' she said.``I tell you I'd rather marry Victor Dorn.''
``Do be careful about my skin, dear,'' pleaded Martha.``Hugo'll be SO put out if there's a mark on it.He's very proud of my skin.''
Jane looked at her quizzically.``What a dear, fat old rotter of a respectability it is, to be sure,'' said she --and strode from the room, and from the house.
Her mood of perversity and defiance did not yield to a ten mile gallop over the gentle hills of that lovely part of Indiana, but held on through the afternoon and controlled her toilet for the ball.She knew that every girl in town would appear at that most fashionable party of the summer season in the best clothing she could get together.As she had several dresses from Paris which she not without reason regarded as notable works of art, the opportunity to outshine was hers-- the sort of opportunity she took pleasure in using to the uttermost, as a rule.But to be the best dressed woman at Mrs.Bertram's party was too easy and too commonplace.To be the worst dressed would call for courage --of just the sort she prided herself on having.Also, it would look original, would cause talk--would give her the coveted sense of achievement.
When she descended to show herself to her father and say good night to him, she was certainly dressed by the same pattern that caused him to be talked about throughout that region.Her gown was mussed, had been mended obviously in several places, had not been in its best day becoming.But this was not all.Her hair looked stringy and dishevelled.She was delighted with herself.
Except during an illness two years before never had she come so near to being downright homely.``Martha will die of shame,''
said she to herself.``And Mrs.Bertram will spend the evening explaining me to everybody.'' She did not definitely formulate the thought, ``And I shall be the most talked about person of the evening''; but it was in her mind none the less.
