O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920 | Page 9

yellow-panelled drawing-room, where she awaited Mrs.
Denby's coming, was lit by a single silver vase-lamp under an orange
shade and by a fire of thin logs, for the April evening was damp with a
hesitant rain. On the table, near the lamp, was a silver vase with three
yellow tulips in it, and Cecil, wandering about, came upon a double
photograph frame, back of the vase, that made her gasp. She picked it
up and stared at it. Between the alligator edgings, facing each other
obliquely, but with the greatest amity, were Mr. Thomas Denby in the
fashion of ten years before, very handsome, very well-groomed, with
the startled expression which any definite withdrawal from his
potational pursuits was likely to produce upon his countenance, and her
uncle-in-law, Mr. Henry McCain, also in the fashion of ten years back.
She was holding the photographs up to the light, her lips still apart,
when she heard a sound behind her, and, putting the frame back guiltily,
turned about. Mrs. Denby was advancing toward her. She seemed
entirely unaware of Cecil's malfeasance; she was smiling faintly; her
hand was cordial, grateful.
"You are very good," she murmured. "Sit here by the fire. We will have
some tea directly."
Cecil could not but admit that she was very lovely; particularly lovely
in the black of her mourning, with her slim neck, rising up from its
string of pearls, to a head small and like a delicate white-and-gold
flower. An extraordinarily well-bred woman, a sort of misty Du
Maurier woman, of a type that had become almost non-existent, if ever
it had existed in its perfection at all. And, curiously enough, a woman
whose beauty seemed to have been sharpened by many fine-drawn
renunciations. Now she looked at her hands as if expecting Cecil to say

something.
"I think such calls as this are always very useless, but then--"
"Exactly--but then! They mean more than anything else in the world,
don't they? When one reaches fifty-five one is not always used to
kindness.... You are very kind...." She raised her eyes.
Cecil experienced a sudden impulsive warmth. "After all, what did she
or any one else know about other peoples' lives? Poor souls! What a
base thing life often was!"
"I want you to understand that we are always so glad, both Adrian and
myself.... Any time we can help in any way, you know--"
"Yes, I think you would. You--I have watched you both. You don't
mind, do you? I think you're both rather great people--at least, my idea
of greatness."
Cecil's eyes shone just a little; then she sat back and drew together her
eager, rather childish mouth. This wouldn't do! She had not come here
to encourage sentimentalization. With a determined effort she lifted her
mind outside the circle of commiseration which threatened to surround
it. She deliberately reset the conversation to impersonal limits. She was
sure that Mrs. Denby was aware of her intention, adroitly concealed as
it was. This made her uncomfortable, ashamed. And yet she was
irritated with herself. Why should she particularly care what this
woman thought in ways as subtle as this? Obvious kindness was her
intention, not mental charity pursued into tortuous by-paths. And,
besides, her frank, boyish cynicism, its wariness, revolted, even while
she felt herself flattered at the prospect of the confidences that seemed
to tremble on Mrs. Denby's lips. It wouldn't do to "let herself in for
anything"; to "give herself away." No! She adopted a manner of cool,
entirely reflective kindliness. But all along she was not sure that she
was thoroughly successful. There was a lingering impression that Mrs.
Denby was penetrating the surface to the unwilling interest beneath.
Cecil suspected that this woman was trained in discriminations and
half-lights to which she and her generation had joyfully made
themselves blind. She felt uncomfortably young; a little bit smiled at in
the most kindly of hidden ways. Just as she was leaving, the subversive
softness came close to her again, like a wave of too much perfume as
you open a church-door; as if some one were trying to embrace her
against her will.

"You will understand," said Mrs. Denby, "that you have done the very
nicest thing in the world. I am horribly lonely. I have few women
friends. Perhaps it is too much to ask--but if you could call again
sometime. Yes ... I would appreciate it so greatly."
She let go of Cecil's hand and walked to the door, and stood with one
long arm raised against the curtain, her face turned toward the hall.
"There is no use," she said, "in attempting to hide my husband's life, for
every one knows what it was, but then--yes, I think you will understand.
I am a childless woman, you see;