and his maiden aunt were sitting quietly in the corner of the Will-o'-the-Wisp—the fashionable cabaret of the moment. His aunt lived in Paris, and during a short stay in New York wished to be shown the sights—not so much that she might enjoy them as that she might point out how inferior they were to those of Paris.
It would never have amused John particularly to take his aunt out for an evening, although she was a clever, alert-minded woman, with a nice, long, thin, bony face, a slim figure and a good string of pearls; but it never amused him to be scolded—as every one is so apt to be nowadays—about his native land. He was not exaggeratedly patriotic, but he felt that he could do nothing to change American trends even if he thought them undesirable. So he was sitting slumped down in his chair, smoking, while his aunt explained that the decorations—in imitation of a bamboo swamp—were tasteless, that the supper had been unwholesome, that the women were badly dressed, and that the band was practically insane, when he suddenly became aware that his cousin Raymond, another nephew, was in the room, dancing with a girl—a young girl, and always the same girl.
John looked about to see if Beatrice, his cousin's wife, was there, but she wasn't. Raymond and the girl went back after each dance to a table for two, where they sat in complete silence staring out at the room with round blank eyes. They did not look very gay.
There was no real reason why Raymond shouldn't be there, only as John had spent most of the evening apologizing for American customs, or at least explaining them, he felt disinclined to explain this incident; especially as he knew his aunt would consider it a tribute to her Continental experiences to think the worst; and so he suggested rather suddenly that it was about time to be going home. Aunt Lucy (she preferred her name to be pronounced “Lucie,” but John's thoroughly Anglo-Saxon tongue could not compass it, and so he insisted on the English spelling, as if from virtue instead of a disability)—Aunt Lucy was shrewd and quick.
“Oh, my dear John!” she said. “I've seen them—saw them as a matter of fact long before you did. What a sweet-looking girl—almost young enough to be Raymond's daughter! Fancy Raymond's having a love affair!”
John felt the irritation usually experienced when near relations say exactly what we expect them to say. “I must confess,” he replied stiffly, “that to my crude American eyes there is nothing whatever to indicate”
“A tragic love affair,” continued his aunt as if he had not spoken, “which is now obviously ending. Yes, they are parting, poor things.”
John wagged his head. “And might I ask on what you base these assumptions, Aunt Lucy?”
She wanted him to ask. “In the first place,” she answered, “this is not a casual meeting. If it were they would rush over here to speak to us and to explain incidentally that it was casual. In the next place it is not a continuing love affair, for in that case—although they might have sense enough to know that it is wiser not to explain—they would have at least discussed the advisability of an explanation. When they saw us first, he would have said: 'Good heavens, there's my old aunt over there with John! Now it will be all over New York,' and she would have said: 'Hadn't you better take me over and introduce me and tell them this or that?' Something of that sort would have passed between them. Nothing did. He saw us and hardly noticed our presence. So you see...”
“As a lawyer, I must say your evidence seems weak,” said John.
“And then, of course,” said the older lady, “the girl has been crying all evening—look at her eyes.”
At this moment the music, with its strange suggestion of the barnyard and the war dance, broke out again. John watched his cousin as he and his partner rose to dance. Raymond Saunders was a tall man, who without being exactly awkward had retained a certain boyish angularity. His large eyes of the deepest blue were young and shy; his thick straight hair was apt to be a little ruffled like a schoolboy's—in fact he was a man about whom every woman who saw him felt a conviction that she could help and protect him, and arrange a better, easier life for him. Any woman left alone with Raymond almost always began recommending to him a new kind of diet, or shoe, or philosophy...
But not this girl—John could see that wasn't her attitude, and as he studied her she took her left hand from Raymond's shoulder and with a curved knuckle she wiped first one set of eyelashes and then the other. Aunt Lucy was right—she was crying—dancing and weeping.
“Well, well,” said John, admitting everything. “I am sorry.”
