Book One
I
SELDEN PAUSED IN surprise. In the afternoon rush of the Grand Central Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of Miss Lily Bart.
It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning to his work from a hurried dip into the country; but what was Miss Bart doing in town at that season? If she had appeared to be catching a train, he might have inferred that he had come on her in the act of transition between one and another of the country-houses which disputed her presence after the close of the Newport season; but her desultory air perplexed him. She stood apart from the crowd, letting it drift by her to the platform or the street, and wearing an air of irresolution which might, as he surmised, be the mask of a very definite purpose. It struck him at once that she was waiting for some one, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. There was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her without a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of her that she always roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result of far-reaching intentions.
An impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line to the door, and stroll past her. He knew that if she did not wish to be seen she would contrive to elude him; and it amused him to think of putting her skill to the test.
āMr. Seldenāwhat good luck!ā
She came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to intercept him. One or two persons, in brushing past them, lingered to look; for Miss Bart was a figure to arrest even the suburban traveller rushing to his last train.
Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head, relieved against the dull tints of the crowd, made her more conspicuous than in a ball-room, and under her dark hat and veil she regained the girlish smoothness, the purity of tint, that she was beginning to lose after eleven years of late hours and indefatigable dancing. Was it really eleven years, Selden found himself wondering, and had she indeed reached the nine-and-twentieth birthday with which her rivals credited her?
āWhat luck!ā she repeated. āHow nice of you to come to my rescue!ā
He responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life, and asked what form the rescue was to take.
āOh, almost anyāeven to sitting on a bench and talking to me. One sits out a cotillionāwhy not sit out a train? It isnāt a bit hotter here than in Mrs. Van Osburghās conservatoryāand some of the women are not a bit uglier.ā
She broke off, laughing, to explain that she had come up to town from Tuxedo, on her way to the Gus Trenorsā at Bellomont, and had missed the three-fifteen train to Rhinebeck.
āAnd there isnāt another till half-past five.ā She consulted the little jewelled watch among her laces. āJust two hours to wait. And I donāt know what to do with myself. My maid came up this morning to do some shopping for me, and was to go on to Bellomont at one oāclock, and my auntās house is closed, and I donāt know a soul in town.ā She glanced plaintively about the station. āIt is hotter than Mrs. Van Osburghās, after all. If you can spare the time, do take me somewhere for a breath of air.ā
He declared himself entirely at her disposal: the adventure struck him as diverting. As a spectator, he had always enjoyed Lily Bart; and his course lay so far out of her orbit that it amused him to be drawn for a moment into the sudden intimacy which her proposal implied.
āShall we go over to Sherryās for a cup of tea?ā
She smiled assentingly, and then made a slight grimace.
āSo many people come up to town on a Mondayāone is sure to meet a lot of bores. Iām as old as the hills, of course, and it ought not to make any difference; but if Iām old enough, youāre not,ā she objected gaily. āIām dying for teaābut isnāt there a quieter place?ā
He answered her smile, which rested on him vividly. Her discretions interested him almost as much as her imprudences: he was so sure that both were part of the same carefully-elaborated plan. In judging Miss Bart, he had always made use of the āargument from design.ā
āThe resources of New York are rather meagre,ā he said; ābut Iāll find a hansom first, and then weāll invent something.ā
He led her through the throng of returning holiday-makers, past sallow-faced girls in preposterous hats, and flat-chested women struggling with paper bundles and palm-leaf fans. Was it possible that she belonged to the same race? The dinginess, the crudity of this average section of womanhood made him feel how highly specialized she was.
A rapid shower had cooled the air, and clouds still hung refreshingly over the moist street.
āHow delicious! Let us walk a little,ā she said as they emerged from the station.
They turned into Madison Avenue and began to stroll northward. As she moved beside him, with her long light step, Selden was conscious of taking a luxurious pleasure in her nearness: in the modelling of her little ear, the crisp upward wave of her hairāwas it ever so slightly brightened by art?āand the thick planting of her straight black lashes. Everything about her was at once vigorous and exquisite, at once strong and fine. He had a confused sense that she must have cost a great deal to make, that a great many dull and ugly people must, in some mysterious way, have been sacrificed to produce her. He was aware that the qualities distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external: as though a fine glaze of beauty and fastidiousness had been applied to vulgar clay. Yet the analogy left him unsatisfied, for a coarse texture will not take a high finish; and was it not possible that the material was fine, but that circumstance had fashioned it into a futile shape?
As he reached this point in his speculations the sun came out, and her lifted parasol cut off his enjoyment. A moment or two later she paused with a sigh.
āOh, dear, Iām so hot and thirstyāand what a hideous place New York is!ā She looked despairingly up and down the dreary thoroughfare. āOther cities put on their best clothes in summer, but New York seems to sit in its shirtsleeves.ā Her eyes wandered down one of the side streets. āSome one has had the humanity to plant a few trees over there. Let us go into the shade.ā
āI am glad my street meets with your approval,ā said Selden as they turned the corner.
āYour street? Do you live here?ā
She glanced with interest along the new brick and limestone house-fronts, fantastically varied in obedience to the American craving for novelty, but fresh and inviting with their awnings and flower-boxes.
āAh, yesāto be sure: The Benedick. What a nice-looking building! I donāt think Iāve ever seen it before.ā She looked across at the flat-house with its marble porch and pseudo-Georgian facade. āWhich are your windows? Those with the awnings down?ā
āOn the top floorāyes.ā
āAnd that nice little balcony is yours? How cool it looks up there!ā
He paused a moment. āCome up and see,ā he suggested. āI can give you a cup of tea in no timeāand you wonāt meet any bores.ā
Her colour deepenedāshe still had the art of blushing at the right timeābut she took the suggestion as lightly as it was made.
āWhy not? Itās too temptingāIāll take the risk,ā she declared.
āOh, Iām not dangerous,ā he said in the same key. In truth, he had never liked her as well as at that moment. He knew she had accepted without afterthought: he could never be a factor in her calculations, and there was a surprise, a refreshment almost, in the spontaneity of her consent.
On the threshold he paused a moment, feeling for his latchkey.
āThereās no one here; but I have a servant who is supposed to come in the mornings, and itās just possible he may have put out the tea-things and provided some cake.ā
He ushered her into a slip of a hall hung with old prints. She noticed the letters and notes heaped on the table among his gloves and sticks; then she found herself in a small library, dark but cheerful, with its walls of books, a pleasantly faded Turkey rug, a littered desk, and, as he had foretold, a tea-tray on a low table near the window. A breeze had sprung up, swaying inward the muslin curtains, and bringing a fresh scent of mignonette and petunias from the flower-box on the balcony.
Lily sank with a sigh into one of the shabby leather chairs.
āHow delicious to have a place like this all to oneās self! What a miserable thing it is to be a woman.ā She leaned back in a luxury of discontent.
Selden was rummaging in a cupboard for the cake.
āEven women,ā he said, āhave been known to enjoy the privileges of a flat.ā
āOh, governessesāor widows. But not girlsānot poor, miserable, marriageable girls!ā
āI even know a girl who lives in a flat.ā
She sat up in surprise. āYou do?ā
āI do,ā he assured her, emerging from the cupboard with the sought-for cake.
āOh, I knowāyou mean Gerty Farish.ā She smiled a little unkindly. āBut I said marriageableāand besides, she has a horrid little place, and no maid, and such queer things to eat. Her cook does the washing and the food tastes of soap. I should hate that, you know.ā
āYou shouldnāt dine with her on wash-days,ā said Selden, cutting the cake.
They both laughed, and he knelt by the table to light the lamp under the kettle, while she measured out the tea into a little tea-pot of green glaze. As he watched her hand, polished as a bit of old ivory, with its slender pink nails, and the sapphire bracelet slipping over her wrist, he was struck with the irony of suggesting to her such a life as his cousin Gertrude Farish had chosen. She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate.
She seemed to read his thought. āIt was horrid of me to say that of Gerty,ā she said with charming compunction. āI forgot she was your cousin. But weāre so different, you know: she likes being good, and I like being happy. And besides, she is free and I am not. If I were, I daresay I could manage to be happy even in her flat. It must be pure bliss to arrange the furniture just as one likes, and give all the horrors to the ash-man. If I could only do over my auntās drawing-room I know I should be a better woman.ā
āIs it so very bad?ā he asked sympathetically.
She smiled at him across the tea-pot which she was holding up to be filled.
āThat shows how seldom you come there. Why donāt you come oftener?ā
āWhen I do come, itās not to look at Mrs. Penistonās furniture.ā
āNonsense,ā she said. āYou donāt come at allāand yet we get on so well when we meet.ā
āPerhaps thatās the reason,ā he answered promptly. āIām afraid I havenāt any cream, you knowāshall you mind a slice of lemon instead?ā
āI shall like it better.ā She waited while he cut the lemon and dropped a thin disk into her cup. āBut that is not the reason,ā she insisted.
āThe reason for what?ā
āFor your never coming.ā She leaned forward with a shade of perplexity in her charming eyes. āI wish I knewāI wish I could make you out. Of course I know there are men who donāt like meāone can tell that at a glance. And there are others who are afraid of me: they think I want to marry them.ā She smiled up at him frankly. āBut I donāt think you dislike meāand you canāt possibly think I want to marry you.ā
āNoāI absolve you of that,ā he agreed.
āWell, thenāā?ā
He had carried his cup to the fireplace, and stood leaning against the chimney-piece and looking down on her with an air of indolent amusement. The provocation in her eyes increased his amusementāhe had not supposed she would waste her powder on such small game; but perhaps she was only keeping her hand in; or perhaps a girl of her age had no conversation but of the personal kind. At any rate, she was amazingly pretty, and he had asked her to tea and must live up to his obligations.
āWell, then,ā he said with a plunge, āperhaps thatās the reason.ā
āWhat?ā
āThe fact that you donāt want to marry me. Perhaps I donāt regard it as such a strong inducement to go and see you.ā He felt a slight shiver down his spine as he ventured this, but her laugh reassured him.
āDear Mr. Selden, that wasnāt worthy of you. Itās stupid of you to make love to me, and it isnāt like you to be stupid.ā She leaned back, sipping her tea with an air so enchantingly judicial that, if they had been in her auntās drawing-room, he might almost have tried to disprove her deduction.
āDonāt you see,ā she continued, āthat there are men enough to say pleasant things to me, and that what I want is a friend who wonāt be afraid to say disagreeable ones when I need them? Sometimes I have fancied you might be that friendāI donāt know why, except that you are neither a prig nor a bounder, and that I shouldnāt have to pretend with you or be on my guard against you.ā Her voice had dropped to a note of seriousness, and she sat gazing up at him with the troubled gravity of a child.
āYou donāt know how much I need such a friend,ā she said. āMy aunt is full of copy-book axioms, but they were all meant to apply to conduct in the early fifties. I always feel that to live up to them would include wearing book-muslin with gigot sleeves. And the other womenāmy best friendsāwell, they use me or abuse me; but they donāt care a straw what happens to me. Iāve been about too longāpeople are getting tired of me; they are beginning to say I ought to marry.ā
There was a momentās pause, during which Selden meditated one or two replies calculated to add a momentary zest to the situation; but he rejected them in favour of the simple question: āWell, why donāt you?ā
She coloured and laughed. āAh, I see you are a friend after all, and that is one of the disagreeable things I was asking for.ā
āIt wasnāt meant to be disagreeable,ā he returned amicably. āIsnāt marriage your vocation? Isnāt it what youāre all brought up for?ā
She sighed. āI suppose so. What else is there?ā
āExactly. And so why not take the plunge and have it over?ā
She shrugged her shoulders. āYou speak as if I ought to marry the first man who came along.ā
āI didnāt mean to imply that you are as hard put to it as that. But there must be some one with the requisite qualifications.ā
She shook her head wearily. āI threw away one or two good chances when I first came outāI suppose every girl does; and you know I am horribly poorāand very expensive. I must have a great deal of money.ā
Selden had turned to reach for a cigarette-box on the mantelpiece.
āWhatās become of Dillworth?ā he asked.
āOh, his mother was frightenedāshe was afraid I should have all the family jewels reset. And she wanted me to promise that I wouldnāt do over the drawing-room.ā
āThe very thing you are marrying for!ā
āExactly. So she packed him off to India.ā
āHard luckābut you can do better than Dillworth.ā
He offered the box, and she took out three or four cigarettes, putting one between her lips and slipping the others into a little gold case attached to her long pearl chain.
āHave I time? Just a whiff, then.ā She leaned forward, holding the tip of her cigarette to his. As she did so, he noted, with a purely impersonal enjoyment, how evenly the black lashes were set in her smooth white lids, and how the purplish shade beneath them melted into the pure pallour of the cheek.
She began to saunter about the room, examining the bookshelves between the puffs of her cigarette-smoke. Some of the volumes had the ripe tints of good tooling and old morocco, and her eyes lingered on them caressingly, not with the appreciation of the expert, but with the pleasure in agreeable tones and textures that was one of her inmost susceptibilities. Suddenly her expression changed from desultory enjoyment to active conjecture, and she turned to Selden with a question.
āYou collect, donāt youāyou know about first editions and things?ā
āAs much as a man may who has no money to spend. Now and then I pick up something in the rubbish heap; and I go and look on at the big sales.ā
She had again addressed herself to the shelves, but her eyes now swept them inattentively, and he saw that she was preoccupied with a new idea.
āAnd Americanaādo you collect Americana?ā
Selden stared and laughed.
āNo, thatās rather out of my line. Iām not really a collector, you see; I simply like to have good editions of the books I am fond of.ā
She made a slight grimace. āAnd Americana are horribly dull, I suppose?ā
āI should fancy soāexcept to the historian. But your real collector values a thing for its rarity. I donāt suppose the buyers of Americana sit up reading them all nightāold Jefferson Gryce certainly didnāt.ā
She was listening with keen attention. āAnd yet they fetch fabulous prices, donāt they? It seems so odd to want to pay a lot for an ugly badly-printed book that one is never going to read! And I suppose most of the owners of Americana are not historians either?ā
āNo; very few of the historians can afford to buy them. They have to use those in the public libraries or in private collections. It seems to be the mere rarity that attracts the average collector.ā
He had seated himself on an arm of the chair near which she was standing, and she continued to question him, asking which were the rarest volumes, whether the Jefferson Gryce c...