“What are you thinking?” said Caroline, suddenly standing beside him.
“I like Mill,” he said.
“I do too,” said Caroline. “Why, did she do something or say something?”
“No. I just like her,” he said. “I’ve been learning how to take it.”
“How?”
“Mr. Robert Herrmann is in his best form, ribbing me about last night—”
“Oh, Lord, where? In the locker-room? Were there a lot of people there?”
“Yes. Whit and Froggy and the usual crowd. He told me I ought to sock out five bucks to cover Harry’s subscription to the dance. And then he started kidding me about the war being over or something. How I waited till 1930 before I did my fighting, and a lot of stuff about calling out the state police.”
“Mm. I suppose we can expect an evening of that.”
“Why? Has anyone said anything to you?”
“No, not exactly. Kitty Hofman came in the johnny while I—”
“God, you women, going to the can together! Why do you always—”
“Do you want to hear what she had to say? Or are you going to go into all that again?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, Kitty, you know how she is. Comes right out with it. She said she heard Harry had a black eye, and I said yes, I knew he had. And she said Whit is worried. Did he say anything to you?”
“No. He didn’t get much chance, with Bobby holding forth. I didn’t wait to talk to Whit.”
“Well, apparently Whit knows Harry has money in the garage.”
“Sure he knows. It’s no secret. As a matter of fact I think I told Whit myself. Yes, I did. I had to tell him, because when Whit heard about it last summer he wanted to know why I hadn’t come to him, and I told him everybody came to him. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No, you didn’t. But anyhow, Kitty said Whit’s worried, because Harry is a bad man to have as an enemy. I told you that.”
“I know you did. Well, we can’t go on standing here like this. There’s Jean and Froggy. Let’s go over there.”
They went over there. Jean was Caroline’s best friend, and Froggy was one of the group whom Julian regarded as his best friends. He had no single best friend, had had none since college. His best friend in college was with the Standard Oil in China, and he never heard from him except about once a year. With these people Julian felt safe and at ease. Froggy, thirty-four, was not quite five years older than Julian. Froggy had lost an arm in the war, and probably because of that Julian felt less close to him than to the other men of the same age who had been in France. Julian’s war record had been made in college, as a member of the S.A.T.C., and he still had the feeling that he should have enlisted to fight and not to go to college. Year by year the feeling grew less strong, and he believed he did not care any more, but he still did. He always did when he saw Froggy for the first time on any day; Froggy, who had been a beautiful swimmer and tennis player. With Jean, Julian had complete ease. Everything that they ever could have been to each other, Jean and Julian had been. They had been passionately in love all one summer long ago; a demi-vierge affair that left them, when it did leave them finally, with a feeling toward each other which was far more innocent than that of two children, and made them ready really to love someone else. Julian knew, because Jean had told him, that she had “gone the limit” with Froggy the very first night she had a date alone with him, and Julian honestly believed he was glad for her.
Now they talked about people who were visiting the So-and-sos; whether the Reading crowd was coming up for the dance; how swell or how perfectly terrible some of the girls looked; whether Julian had had a flat tire, as they had seen his car stopped on the road to the club; wasn’t it wonderful, or wasn’t it? the way the highway department got the roads clear so quickly; such a lovely corsage; oh, smoke a Camel, you can’t tell the difference; Mill’s father looks worse than ever; there was one thing about the Ammermanns, and that was when they gave a party they didn’t spare the pennies. Then Mill and her mother and father were seen to take their places, standing just inside the ballroom (living-room when the furniture was not cleared away), and forming a little reception line. In less than three minutes there was a milling crowd in the foyer, all waiting to say good evening a bit stiffly to Mr. and Mrs. Ammermann, and a very friendly hello to Mill. The orchestra, Ben Riskin and his Royal Canadians, from Harrisburg, took their places and with two thumps of the bass drum burst forth into (boom boom) Oh, Give Me Something To Remember You By. “Now please don’t drink too much,” said Caroline, and went to find her place at the festive board.
II
The festive board now groaned under the Baked Alaska. The Ammermann dinner party was just about over. Until one o’clock the men, young and old, would see to it that Mill was not left standing without a partner; after that whatever dances she got she would have got without giving the dinner. Tomorrow’s papers would carry the list of guests, and then the dinner would be history. Next Christmas the big dinner at the club Christmas dance would be given by someone else. Whatever she did, Mill Ammermann must not give another large dress-up party for at least a year.
Tonight’s dinner, as almost every guest was able to tell at a glance, was the club’s two-fifty dinner. This was a club dinner dance, and all members were invited. At a dinner such as the Ammermanns’, the hostess could arrange with the steward for the dollar-fifty (roast chicken), the two-dollar (roast turkey), or the two-fifty (filet mignon), and this had been the filet mignon dinner. The Ammermanns had just that much money, and their position in Gibbsville was just that certain and insecure, that they had to give the best of everything. Conforming to custom, the Ammermanns did not supply drinks, nor did they pay the dance subscriptions. A man on accepting an invitation to the dinner was paired off with a woman or girl. The custom for unmarried, unengaged men was to accept the dinner invitation with his card, and then to telephone the hostess and ask if she wanted him to escort someone to the dinner. All this was arranged beforehand, much more subtly than might be supposed. There were certain sad birds among the girls who had to be invited to many dinners, and it was understood by the hostess that certain men would make themselves available to take these sad birds to the dinner. But it was also understood by every hostess that a popular, attractive young man should not be designated the escort of any but popular, attractive girls. Then there was another group of girls, to which Mill Ammermann herself belonged, who got to the dance somehow, usually with a married couple who were friends of hers, or as extra girl on a party of four or six. Mill, and girls like her, could tell almost to the foot how far they would dance, and if they danced more than that distance they could inquire of themselves what was wrong. Usually the answer, to girls like Mill, was that some young husband was sore at his wife and wanted to tell Mill all about it because Mill was such a pal. So understanding. And didn’t misunderstand when you gave her what amounted to a rush. Sometimes, of course, Mill and the girls like her would get a real rush—by a man who had drunk more than usual. Whatever was cruel about the system, there were some things to be said for it; for one thing, by the time a girl was twenty-five she usually was prepared, knew precisely what to expect, of every dance that she went to. Only a very few girls of Mill’s type went to a dance with sadly foolish hopes that this dance would be different from any other. And there was one other unwritten, unspoken agreement among the dancing men: if a Gibbsville girl of doubtful popularity inveigled an out-of-town man to come to a club dance, the Gibbsville men did go a little bit out of their way to see that she made a good showing. They danced with her twice instead of once in a night; with the result that all but the saddest of the sad birds married themselves off to out-of-town men. Of course when they once married their ugly duckling days were forgiven and forgotten; such girls took their places with the most popular girls. But it had to be marriage, not merely an engagement, but the man could be the worst heel, stupid, badly dressed—anything, so long as he was not a Jew. Not that any Gibbsville girl of the country club–Lantenengo Street set ever married a Jew. She wouldn’t have dared.