Jacqueline laughed, and looked intently at her: "You're so pretty, Cynthia—and so silly sometimes."
Cynthia stretched her young figure full length in the chair, yawning and crooking both arms back under her curly brown head. Her eyes, too, were brown, and had in them always a half-veiled languor that few men could encounter undisturbed.
"A week ago," she said, "you told me over the telephone that you would be at the dance. I never laid eyes on you."
"I came home too tired. It was my first day at Silverwood. I overdid it, I suppose."
"Silverwood?"
"Where I go to business in Westchester," she explained patiently.
"Oh, Mr. Desboro's place!" with laughing malice.
"Yes, Mr. Desboro's place."
The hint of latent impatience in Jacqueline's voice was not lost on Cynthia; and she resumed her tormenting inquisition:
"How long is it going to take you to catalogue Mr. Desboro's collection?"
"I have several weeks' work, I think—I don't know exactly."
"All winter, perhaps?"
"Possibly."
"Is he always there, darling?"
Jacqueline was visibly annoyed: "He has happened to be, so far. I believe he is going South very soon—if that interests you."
"'Phone me when he goes," retorted Cynthia, unbelievingly.
"What makes you say such things!" exclaimed Jacqueline. "I tell you he isn't that kind of a man."
"Read the Tattler, dearest!"
"I won't."
"Don't you ever read it?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Curiosity."
"I haven't any."
Cynthia laughed incredulously:
"People who have no curiosity are either idiots or they have already found out. Now, you are not an idiot."
Jacqueline smiled: "And I haven't found out, either."
"Then you're just as full of curiosity as the rest of us."
"Not of unworthy curiosity——"
"I never knew a good person who wasn't. I'm good, am I not, Jacqueline?"
"Of course."
"Well, then, I'm full of all kinds of curiosities—worthy and unworthy. I want to know about everything!"
"Everything good."
"Good and bad. God lets both exist. I want to know about them."
"Why be curious about what is bad? It doesn't concern us."
"If you know what concerns you only, you'll never know anything. Now, when I read a newspaper I read about fashionable weddings, millionaires, shows, murders—I read everything—not because I'm going to be fashionably married, or become a millionaire or a murderer, but because all these things exist and happen, and I want to know all about them because I'm not an idiot, and I haven't already found out. And so that's why I buy the Tattler whenever I have five cents to spend on it!"
"It's a pity you're not more curious about things worth while," commented Jacqueline serenely.
Cynthia reddened: "Dear, I haven't the education or brain to be interested in the things that occupy you."
"I didn't mean that," protested Jacqueline, embarrassed. "I only——"
"I know, dear. You are too sweet to say it; but it's true. The bunch you play with knows it. We all realise that you are way ahead of us—that you're different——"
"Please don't say that—or think it."
"But it's true. You really belong with the others—" she made a gay little gesture—"over there in the Fifth Avenue district, where art gets gay with fashion; where lady highbrows wear tiaras; where the Jims and Jacks and Reggies float about and hand each other new ones between quarts; where you belong, darling—wherever you finally land!"
Jacqueline was laughing: "But I don't wish to land there! I never wanted to."
"All girls do! We all dream about it!"
"Here is one girl who really doesn't. Of course, I'd like to have a few friends of that kind. I'd rather like to visit houses where nobody has to think of money, and where young people are jolly, and educated, and dress well, and talk about interesting things——"
"Dear, we all would like it. That's what I'm saying. Only there's a chance for you because you know something—but none for us. We understand that perfectly well—and we dream on all the same. We'd miss a lot if we didn't dream."
Jacqueline said mockingly: "I'll invite you to my Fifth Avenue residence the minute I marry what you call a Reggie."
"I'll come if you'll stand for me. I'm not afraid of any Reggie in the bench show!"
They laughed; Cynthia stretched out a lazy hand for another chocolate; Jacqueline knitted, the smile still hovering on her scarlet lips.
Bending over her work, she said: "You won't misunderstand when I tell you how much I enjoy being at Silverwood, and how nice Mr. Desboro has been."
"Has been."
"Is, and surely will continue to be," insisted Jacqueline tranquilly. "Shall I tell you about Silverwood?"
Cynthia nodded.
"Well, then, Mr. Desboro has such a funny old housekeeper there, who gives me 'magic drops' on lumps of sugar. The drops are aromatic and harmless, so I take them to please her. And he has an old, old butler, who is too feeble to be very useful; and an old, old armourer, who comes once a week and potters about with a bit of chamois; and a parlour maid who is sixty and wears glasses; and a laundress still older. And a whole troop of dogs and cats come to luncheon with us. Sometimes the butler goes to sleep in the pantry, and Mr. Desboro and I sit and talk. And if he doesn't wake up, Mr. Desboro hunts about for somebody to wait on us. Of course there are other servants there, and farmers and gardeners, too. Mr. Desboro has a great deal of land. And so," she chattered on quite happily and irrelevantly, "we go skating for half an hour after lunch before I resume my cataloguing. He skates very well; we are learning to waltz on skates——"
"Who does the teaching?"
"He does. I don't skate very well; and unless it were for him I'd have such tumbles! And once we went sleighing—that is, he drove me to the station—in rather a roundabout way. And the country was so beautiful! And the stars—oh, millions and millions, Cynthia! It was as cold as the North Pole, but I loved it—and I had on his other fur coat and gloves. He is very nice to me. I wanted you to understand the sort of man he is."
"Perhaps he is the original hundredth man," remarked Cynthia skeptically.
"Most men are hundredth men when the nine and ninety girls behave themselves. It's the hundredth girl who makes the nine and ninety men horrid."
"That's what you believe, is it?"
"I do."
"Dream on, dear." She went to a glass, pinned her pretty hat, slipped into the smart fur coat that Jacqueline held for her, and began to draw on her gloves.
"Can't you stay to dinner," asked Jacqueline.
"Thank you, sweetness, but I'm dining at the Beaux Arts."
"With any people I know?"
"You