The Golden Vanity Read Online Free Page B

in the ballroom unconsciously, because she was not there.
     

3
     
    G INA had the afternoon off. Mrs. Siddall was closeted with her lawyers and business advisers. Her surgeon would have been greatly annoyed if he had known; the operation was set for next day, and he had ordered twenty-four hours of absolute quiet. He did not know.
    In the atmosphere of secrecy proper to the discussion of large sums of money or other sacred subjects, Julius Dickerson explained that a holding corporation sometimes simplified the—ah—transfer tax. He avoided saying death duties. Mrs. Siddall was not discomposed. She had no intention of dying. The idea of trust funds gratified her by its implication of permanence, order and security. All obligations taken care of in advance, family, friends, good works. She gave a great deal to charity, in a fixed but handsome measure. She liked giving—as we should all like to give, out of an immense surplus.
    Going out, Gina passed Janet Kirkland, hovering with a notebook in case Mrs. Siddall should call her. Janet's nose was glossy pink from weeping. She had the slightly imbecile expression of a loyal populace, on the route of royalty.
    Arthur must be in his own library. Gina hurried; she was not prepared to encounter him. Since yesterday . . .
    Standing on the steps, in the thin delusive February sunshine, lassitude invaded her, a spiritual fatigue. The massive weight of the great house at her back made itself felt, as if she had been trying to move it unaided.
    So she had. The establishment, as such, was solidly against her as an individual. For her to become an integral part of it, the whole organization must undergo a relative displacement and adjustment. Had she moved it by the infinitesimal fraction of an inch in four months? Since the birthday dinner she had bent all her energies upon the almost impossible task. She sighed deeply, as if she had been holding her breath. Discouragement settled on her, localized as a physical chill between her shoulder blades, the coldness of a stone wall, shutting her out.
    In a personal relation, there is an invisible boundary line you have to pass, at which it becomes personal, and you can't even tell till afterward. She couldn't now, about Arthur. She saw him every day. Mrs. Siddall found it humiliating to be led by her maid or secretary, and depended on Arthur. Every morning he came to her boudoir, to give her his arm when she went down to lunch. He sat about, his hands clasping his knee, pathetically masculine in a ruffled chintz chair, surrounded by knick-knacks and women: Mrs. Perry, Janet, Trudi. He was too polite to defend himself against tedium with a book. Gina was usually present, also waiting, in the background. She was glad it happened so; he grew used to her, his shyness wearing off with custom. He knew what she was there for, or he thought he did. She wasn't on his hands, not even when they were in his library. It seemed to happen by chance again, and he was pleased to show her his collection. The chance naturally recurred; he came to anticipate it, if he had something new to show. And they had a joke between them, looking over their shoulders for pursuers.
    But yesterday evening . . .
    No, she could not be sure . . . She hoped Mysie would be at home. She had an inward conviction that Mysie understood—about men.
    A taxi drew up to the curb; Gina signaled it before recognizing the vacating passenger as Sam Reynolds. "Hello," he said cheerily, "any progress?" Gina regarded him with silent hatred and stepped into the cab. "There I go again," Sam said. "Ever hear of the goof that said to a girl: 'Oh, I know what you're thinking about'—and she slapped his face?"
    The palm of Gina's hand tingled with the desire to do just that. The more because she was aware of an obscure counter-inclination to listen to Sam. As a man, he possessed that terrible profane knowledge which a woman could acquire only at an incalculable risk . . . She gave the taxi chauffeur