"That's absurd, Clive! She may not be uneducated but she certainly cannot be either cultivated or well-bred."
"She is cultivating herself."
"Then for goodness' sake let her do it! It's praiseworthy and commendable for a working girl to try to better herself. But it doesn't concern you."
"Why not? If a business girl does better herself and fit herself for a better social environment, it seems to me her labour is in vain if people within the desired environment snub her."
"What kind of argument is that? Socialistic? I merely know it is unbaked. What theory is it, dear?"
"I don't know what it is. It seems reasonable to me, mother."
"Clive, are you trying to make yourself sentimentalise over that Greensleeve woman?"
"I told you that I am not in love with her; nor is she with me. It's an agreeable and happy comradeship; that's all."
"People think it something more," retorted his mother, curtly.
"That's their fault, not Athalie's and not mine."
"Then, why do you go about with her? Why? You know girls enough, don't you?"
"Plenty. They resemble one another to the verge of monotony."
"Is that the way you regard the charming, well-born, well-bred, clever, cultivated girls of your own circle, whose parents were the friends of your parents?"
"Oh, mother, I like them of course But there's something about a business girl a girl in the making that is more amusing, more companionable, more interesting. A business girl seems to wear better. She's better worth talking to, listening to, it's better fun to go about with her, see things with her, discuss things "
"What on earth are you talking about! It's perfect babble; it's nonsense! If you really believe you have a penchant for sturdy and rather grubby worthiness unadorned you are mistaken. The inclination you have is merely for a pretty face and figure. I know you. If I don't, who does! You're rather a fastidious young man, even finicky, and very, very much accustomed to the best and only the best. Don't talk to me about your disinterested admiration for a working girl. You haven't anything in common with her, and you never could have. And you'd better be very careful not to make a fool of yourself."
"How?"
"As all men are likely to do at your callow age."
"Fall in love with her?"
"You can call it that. The result is always deplorable. And if she's a smart, selfish, and unscrupulous girl, the result may be more deplorable still, as far as we all are concerned. What is the need of my saying this? You are grown; you know it already. Up to the present time you've kept fastidiously clear of such entanglements. You say you have, and your father and I believe you. So what is the use of beginning now, creating an unfortunate impression in your own set, spending your time with such a girl as this Greensleeve girl "
"Mother," he said, "you're going about this matter in the wrong way. I am not in love with Athalie Greensleeve. But there is no girl I like better, none perhaps I like quite as well. Let me alone. There's no sentiment between her and me so far. There won't be any unless you and other people begin to drive us toward each other. I don't want you to do that. Don't interfere. Let us alone. We're having a good time, a perfectly natural, wholesome, happy time together."
"What is it leading to?" demanded his mother impatiently.
"To nothing except more good times. That's absolutely all. That's all that good times lead to where any of the girls you approve of are concerned not to sentiment, not to love, merely to more good times. Why on earth can't people understand that even if the girl happens to be earning her own living?"
"People don't understand. That is the truth, and you can't alter it, Clive. The girl's reputation will always suffer. And that's where you ought to show yourself generous."
"What?"
"If you really like and respect her."
"How am I to show myself generous, as you put it?"
"By keeping away from her."
"Because people gossip?"
"Because," said his mother sharply, "they'll think the girl is your mistress if you continue to decorate public resorts with her."
"Would you think so, mother?"
"No. You happen to be my son. And you're truthful. Otherwise I'd think so."
"You would?"
"Certainly."
"That's rotten," he said, slowly.
"Oh, Clive, don't be a fool. You can't do what you're doing without arousing suspicion everywhere from a village sewing-circle to the smartest gathering on Manhattan Island! You know it."
"I have never thought about it."
"Then think of it now. Whether it's rotten, as you say, or not, it's so. It's one of the folk-ways of the human species. And if it is, merely saying it's rotten can't alter it."
Mrs. Bailey's car was at the door; Clive took the great sable coat from the maid who brought it and slipped it over the handsome afternoon gown that his handsome mother wore.
For a moment he stood, looking at her almost curiously at the brilliant black eyes, the clear smooth olive skin still youthful enough to be attractive, at the red lips, mostly nature's hue, at the cheeks where the delicate carmine flush was still mostly nature's.
He said: "You have so much, mother It seems strange you should not be more generous to a girl you have never seen."
His handsome, capable, and experienced mother gazed at him out of friendly and amused eyes from which delusion had long since fled. And that is where she fell short, for delusion is the offspring of imagination; and without imagination no intelligence is complete. She said: "I can be generous with any woman except where my son concerns himself with her. Where anybody else's son is involved I could be generous to any girl, even " she smiled her brilliant smile "even perhaps not too maliciously generous. But the situation in your case doesn't appeal to me as humorous. Keep away from her, Clive; it's easier than ultimately to run away from her."
CHAPTER IX
THE course of irresponsible amusement which C. Bailey, Jr., continued to pursue at intervals with the fair scion of the house road-house of Greensleeve, did not run as smoothly as it might have, and was not unmixed with carping reflections and sordid care on his part, and with an increasing number of interruptions, admonitions, and warnings on the part of his mother.
That pretty lady, flint-hardened in the igneous social lava-pot, continued to hear disquieting tales of her son's doings. They came to her right and left, from dance and card-table, opera-box and supper party, tea and bazaar and fashionable reception.
One grim-visaged old harridan of whom Manhattan stood in fawning fear, bluntly informed her that she'd better look out for her boy if she didn't want to become a grandmother.
Which infuriated and terrified Mrs. Bailey and set her thinking with all the implacable concentration of which she was capable.
So far in life she had accomplished whatever she set out to do And of all things on earth she dreaded most to become a grandmother of any description whatever.
But between Athalie and Clive, if there had been any doubts concerning the propriety or expediency of their companionship neither he nor she had, so far, expressed them.
Their comradeship, in fact, had now become an intimacy the sort that permits long silences without excuse or embarrassment on either side. She continued to charm and surprise him; and to discover, daily, in him new traits to admire in a character which perhaps he did not really possess.
In this girl he seemed to find an infinite variety. Moods, impulsive or deliberate, and capricious or logical, continued to stimulate his interest in her every time they met. On no two days was she exactly the same or so he seemed to think. And yet her basic qualities were, it appeared to him, characteristic and unvarying, directness, loyalty, generosity, freedom from ulterior motive and a gay confidence in a world which, for the first time in her life, she had begun to find unexpectedly exciting.