The House of Mirth | Page 8

always paid for her rare
indiscretions by a violent reaction of prudence. There was no one in sight, however, but a
char-woman who was scrubbing the stairs. Her own stout person and its surrounding
implements took up so much room that Lily, to pass her, had to gather up her skirts and
brush against the wall. As she did so, the woman paused in her work and looked up
curiously, resting her clenched red fists on the wet cloth she had just drawn from her pail.
She had a broad sallow face, slightly pitted with small-pox, and thin straw-coloured hair
through which her scalp shone unpleasantly.
"I beg your pardon," said Lily, intending by her politeness to convey a criticism of the
other's manner.
The woman, without answering, pushed her pail aside, and continued to stare as Miss
Bart swept by with a murmur of silken linings. Lily felt herself flushing under the look.
What did the creature suppose? Could one never do the simplest, the most harmless thing,
without subjecting one's self to some odious conjecture? Half way down the next flight,
she smiled to think that a char-woman's stare should so perturb her. The poor thing was
probably dazzled by such an unwonted apparition. But WERE such apparitions unwonted
on Selden's stairs? Miss Bart was not familiar with the moral code of bachelors'
flat-houses, and her colour rose again as it occurred to her that the woman's persistent
gaze implied a groping among past associations. But she put aside the thought with a
smile at her own fears, and hastened downward, wondering if she should find a cab short
of Fifth Avenue.
Under the Georgian porch she paused again, scanning the street for a hansom. None was
in sight, but as she reached the sidewalk she ran against a small glossy-looking man with
a gardenia in his coat, who raised his hat with a surprised exclamation.

"Miss Bart? Well--of all people! This IS luck," he declared; and she caught a twinkle of
amused curiosity between his screwed-up lids.
"Oh, Mr. Rosedale--how are you?" she said, perceiving that the irrepressible annoyance
on her face was reflected in the sudden intimacy of his smile.
Mr. Rosedale stood scanning her with interest and approval. He was a plump rosy man of
the blond Jewish type, with smart London clothes fitting him like upholstery, and small
sidelong eyes which gave him the air of appraising people as if they were bric-a-brac. He
glanced up interrogatively at the porch of the Benedick.
"Been up to town for a little shopping, I suppose?" he said, in a tone which had the
familiarity of a touch.
Miss Bart shrank from it slightly, and then flung herself into precipitate explanations.
"Yes--I came up to see my dress-maker. I am just on my way to catch the train to the
Trenors'."
"Ah--your dress-maker; just so," he said blandly. "I didn't know there were any
dress-makers in the Benedick."
"The Benedick?" She looked gently puzzled. "Is that the name of this building?"
"Yes, that's the name: I believe it's an old word for bachelor, isn't it? I happen to own the
building--that's the way I know." His smile deepened as he added with increasing
assurance: "But you must let me take you to the station. The Trenors are at Bellomont, of
course? You've barely time to catch the five-forty. The dress-maker kept you waiting, I
suppose."
Lily stiffened under the pleasantry.
"Oh, thanks," she stammered; and at that moment her eye caught a hansom drifting down
Madison Avenue, and she hailed it with a desperate gesture.
"You're very kind; but I couldn't think of troubling you," she said, extending her hand to
Mr. Rosedale; and heedless of his protestations, she sprang into the rescuing vehicle, and
called out a breathless order to the driver.


Chapter 2
In the hansom she leaned back with a sigh. Why must a girl pay so dearly for her least
escape from routine? Why could one never do a natural thing without having to screen it
behind a structure of artifice? She had yielded to a passing impulse in going to Lawrence

Selden's rooms, and it was so seldom that she could allow herself the luxury of an
impulse! This one, at any rate, was going to cost her rather more than she could afford.
She was vexed to see that, in spite of so many years of vigilance, she had blundered twice
within five minutes. That stupid story about her dress-maker was bad enough--it would
have been so simple to tell Rosedale that she had been taking tea with Selden! The mere
statement of the fact would have rendered it innocuous. But, after having let herself be
surprised in a falsehood, it was doubly stupid to snub the witness of her discomfiture.