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Chapter 1 The McCleods At Home
It was not a large party, just a small mingle, but almost everyone there had been proud to get an invitation and glad to accept it.
For the somewhat taciturn Hugh McCleod and his lovely kitten-faced wife, Alma, were high spots in New York society, although they neither sought for nor cared about that accolade.
“Why do you build?” asked Murray. “There are hundreds of houses on Long Island just right for you two.”
“No,” Alma returned, with her usual decided air, “we don’t want a ready-made house, it must be built according to our own plans. Hugh and I have talked it over and over—”
“Why does building require so much talking?” Van Dyke Haynes inquired, in his gentle drawling voice. “If you want a house, just say what you want and have it built. I am an architect and I know.”
“You may know for yourself, Van,” Ogden Murray checked him, “but for most people, building, if it is to be a success, must be talked about. Look at the Tower of Babel!”
“Better look up your Scripture lessons,” Alma laughed. “It was the chatter at the outset that prevented that tower being built at all.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. I say, Alma, let me drive you out to look at a few houses, before you decide—”
“Talk to Hugh about it, he’s right over there. If he’ll consent to buying a used house, I’ll agree.”
The big Park Avenue apartment was duplex and the floors were connected by a graceful stairway of white marble. The appointments were modified modernistic, the modernism being by reason of Alma’s insistence and the modification because of Hugh’s Scotch doggedness. The McCleods, though apparently ill-matched, were happy enough. He was big and sometimes boisterous; she was frail, both morally and physically, but she was very lovely.
Their home was the Mecca of many social pilgrims, but it was reached only by those who were worthy because of some attainment of merit or some charm of personality.
“Where is Brand Herrick?” Murray asked, and then answered himself, “Oh, here he comes, with Nadine, as always.”
“Is that true, Brand?” Alma said, as Herrick reached her side. “Are you always with Nadine?”
“Not when I can be with you, darling.”
“Take him off my hands, Alma, do. I’m awfully tired of him.” This from Nadine Glenn, who thought herself a glamor girl, and with good reason.
She was the serpent type. She writhed, very slightly but very effectively. For the rest, she was languid brunette with heavy-lidded eyes.
Alma, oppositely enough, was that rare combination, a blonde with a real mentality.
Brand Herrick admired them both, but he often realized, to his own amazement, that when he was with one, he invariably wished he might be with the other. Nadine was deeply in love with him, and Alma seemed to be. But Herrick shrewdly suspected that Alma’s interest in him was more to annoy Nadine than because of her own sentiments.
He was a clever lawyer, and his gay good nature made him a general favorite.
Doris Day was an odd combination of a wilful child and a capable and helpful friend. She was twenty-three, but looked about seventeen, until she found a chance to do something for somebody, and then she seemed mature and very wise. Large innocent gray eyes and softly curled brown hair made her pleasant to look upon, and her entire lack of malice set her apart from most of her associates.
Just now she came to Alma, and turning her away from the others, said softly:
“Who is that girl, over there by the palm bush?”
“I’ve no idea,” her hostess answered. “I never saw her before, she must have come with somebody.”
The girl seemed alone, seemed stranded, in fact, and kind-hearted Doris went to her.
“Come along to the bar,” she invited. “Are you with the Laings?”
“No,” and when the girl smiled, she looked attractive. But she was so evidently a stranger, and she seemed dubious about going with Doris.
Then she said, in a burst of frankness, “You think I’m a fish out of water, don’t you? Well, I am. Miss Malcolm brought me, and then she went off to look at a picture, and I’m just waiting for her. I’d like a cocktail.”
The girl laughed outright.
“You’re like a St. Bernard!” she said; “and I’m the lost traveler! My name is Una Deane—”
“Of course!” exclaimed Doris, “I should have known! It couldn’t be anything else.”
“Why couldn’t it? What do you mean? I’ve never seen you before.”
“No, but you are so perfectly a Una Deane, from top to toe!”
“Oh, I see. You mean I’m not—not smart, not glamorous.”
Doris looked at her.
“That’s a true bill,” she said, “but those things can be put right. And, if I had meant them, I should not have said them.”
“Miss Malcolm may expect me to be here when she comes back.”
“Who’s Miss Malcolm? What is she?”
“She is Miss Martha Malcolm—”
“What! You don’t mean Martha Malcolm, the painter?”
“Of course I do. I am a student in the Atterbury School of Design; she is there often, and she is my friend.”
“You’re a lucky girl! Martha Malcolm is a power. Come on, she’ll find you.”
They found a gay crowd at the bar, and Doris introduced her new find as a protégé of Martha Malcolm. The effect of this and the added effect of a well-selected cocktail gave Una a new confidence in herself, some hidden dimples came shyly into the open and she regained her pleasant modest savoir faire. Ogden Murray looked at her twice and came to sit beside her; Van Dyke Haynes waxed chummy, whereupon Nadine looked offended and said:
“Come on, Van, I want to dance,” and he went with her.
Martha Malcolm came to the bar.
“Oh, here you are, Una,” she said, smiling at the happy looking girl. “Wait a minute till I have me a drink, and then I want to take you to meet our hostess.”
“Let me take Miss Deane,” offered Ogden Murray. “You stay here, Miss Malcolm. I’ll hunt out Alma and present Miss Deane in your name.”
“Yes, do, Ogden. And find Hugh, too. I want Una to meet him.”
“Will you come, Miss Deane, and,” he added, as they walked away, “if you’ll let me call you Una, I’ll—”‘
He paused, for the girl was laughing at him.
“Sorry,” she said, “but you’ve got your lines wrong! Or have you? Miss Malcolm told me that the men here would be hilariously informal, and would call me Una at first sight and probably darling—”
“Yes, I meant to—I do mean to, but you see—”
Una laughed. “Tell me a little more about Miss Malcolm, won’t you? I’ve never seen her social side before, I’ve only known her in the classes.”
“She’s an important woman. Does work in many fields, in war, in peace and among her countrymen. But she’s eccentric.”
“Not in her manner?”
“Not exactly, though she is a little informal. We all are, but it seems odd in her. Then she makes queer friends.”
“Like me?”
Murray looked at her reprovingly.
“Don’t be silly!” he said. “It doesn’t suit you. You are—”
She interrupted him. “Never mind about me, tell me something about the McCleods. Quick, before we reach them.”
“I want you to be friends with Alma, she can do a lot for you.”
“I don’t choose friends because of what they can do for me.”
“Well, you ought to. Any way, do in this case. Alma McCleod can give you far more pleasure than Martha Malcolm.”
“They’re both Scotch, aren’t they?”
“Oh, no. Miss Malcolm is of Scotch stock, but Alma is Hugh’s wife, you know. He’s Scotch, of course. Oh, here we are.”
Alma, having come through a doorway, stood right in front of them, and Murray made the introduction.
“How delightful,” Alma said, and her tone was sincere. “Miss Malcolm told me of you and I was about to look you up. Tell me, do you live in the city?”
“Yes, I am in the classes with Miss Malcolm. She made me very happy bringing me here tonight.”
“I hope you will come again—often. And here is my husband. Hugh, this is Miss Deane, a friend of Martha’s, and now a friend of ours.”
He grasped Una’s hand a moment, and then went quickly away.
She looked up at Murray and found him watching her. Alma had disappeared.
“He’s very much in earnest,” she said, thoughtfully.
“Think so? Why?”
“Oh, his manner, and his haste.”
“He’s always like that, it’s just his way.”
“It isn’t a Scotch way.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s Hugh’s way.”
“Now, I think you’re tired of me and I know I’m tired of you, so if you’ll take me back to the dressing room, I think I’ll go home, and you can tell Miss Malcolm I’ve gone, for I don’t want to hurry her off so early.”
“It’s well after two, nearly three. A nice time for a girl alone, to go home!”
“Rubbish! I shall take a taxi, and I am not afraid.”
“Oh, very well! Then, since you are leaving me and are making no plans for a future meeting, I am going to kiss you now. I meant to work up to it gradually.”
“No, you are not going to kiss me. Men kiss me only when I want them to, and I do not want you to. Do I have to say good night to Mrs. McCleod?”
“As you like. She’s right over there; it would be a graceful gesture.”
“Tell me, is Alma in love with that granite statue?”
“Meaning Hugh McCleod! He’s no statue, he’s a bending willow wand. He’s ready to do anything anybody asks him.”
Murray looked thoughtful and remained silent.
And then they were in the presence of Miss Malcolm, and she was quite ready to go home, and Una Deane went with her.
