The room blazed with color. It seemed that the gorgeous things which the women were wearing had for this once managed to subdue the strident tones of the inevitable black and white of the men’s costumes. Tonight they lent just enough of preciseness to add interest to the riotously hued scene. The place was crowded but cool, for a gentle breeze blew from the Sound through the large open windows and doors, now and then stirring some group of flowers.
Julia Romley, in spite of the smoke-colored chiffon gown (ordered specially for the occasion) which she was wearing, seemed even more flamingly clad than the rest. The pale in definite gray but increased the flaring mop of her hair; scarlet, a poet had called it. The satiny texture of her skin seemed also to reflect in her cheeks a cozy tinge of that red mass.
Julia, however, was not happy tonight. A close observer would have said that she was actively disturbed. Faint abstraction, trite remarks nervously offered, and uncontrolled restlessness marred her customary perfect composure. Her dreamy gray eyes stole frequently in the direction of Myra Redmon’s party. Myra always had a lion in tow, but why that particular man? She shook a little as she wondered.
Suddenly, the orchestra blared into something wild and impressionistic, with a primitive staccato understrain of jazz. The buzz of conversation died, strangled by the savage strains of the music. The crowd stirred, broke, coalesced into twos, and became a whirling mass. A partner claimed Julia and they became part of the swaying mob.
“Some show, what?” George Hill’s drawling voice was saying, while he secretly wondered what had got into Julia; she was so quiet, not like herself at all.
Julia let her eyes wander over the moving crowd. Young men, old men, young women, older women, slim girls, fat women, thin men, stout men, glided by. The old nursery rhyme came into her mind. She repeated it to George in a singsong tone:
“Rich man, poor man, Beggar man, thief, Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief.”
George nodded. “Yes, that’s it. Everybody’s here and a few more. And look, look! There’s the ‘Indian chief.’ Wonder who he is? He certainly looks the part.”
Julia didn’t look; she knew what she would see. A tall, thin man, his lean face yellowed and hardened as if by years in the tropics; a man, perhaps, a bit unused to scenes of this kind, purposely a little aloof and, one suspected, more than a little contemptuous.
She felt a flash of resentful anger against Myra. Why was she always carting about impossible people? It was disgusting. It was worse—it was dangerous. Certainly it was about to become dangerous to her, Julia Romley, erstwhile … She let the thought die unfinished, it was too unpleasant.
She had been so happy, so secure, and now this: Ralph Tyler, risen from the past to shatter the happiness which she had grasped for herself. Must she begin all over again? She made a hasty review of her life since San Francisco days: Chicago and the art school where she had studied interior decorating with the money that Ralph Tyler had given her; New York, her studio and success; Boston, and marriage to Jim Romley. And now this envied gay life in one of Long Island’s most exclusive sets. Yes, life had been good to her at last, better than she had ever dreamed. Was she about to lose everything—love, wealth, and position? She shivered.
“Cold?” Again George’s drawling voice dragging her back to the uncertain present.
“No, not cold. Just someone walking over my grave,” she answered laughingly. “I’m rotten company tonight, George. I’m sorry; I’ll do better. It’s the crowd, I guess.”
Her husband claimed her for the next dance. A happy married pair, their obvious joy in each other after five wedded years was the subject of amused comment and mild jokes among their friends. “The everlasting lovers,” they were dubbed, and the name suited them as perfectly as they suited each other.
“What’s wrong, Julie, old girl?” asked Jim after a few minutes’ baffled scrutiny. “Tired?”
“Nothing, nothing. I just feel small, so futile in this crush; sort of trapped, you know. Why do the Arnolds have so many people to their things?” Quickly regretting her display of irritation, she added: “It’s wonderful, though—the people, the music, the color, and these lovely rooms, like a princess’s ball in a fairy tale.”
“Yes, great,” he agreed. “Lots of strangers here, too; most of them distinguished people from town.”
“Who’s the tall browned man with Myra, who looks like—well, like an Indian chief?” She laughed a little at her own pleasantry, just to show Jim that there was nothing troubling her.