Twilight Sleep by Edith Wharton Page A

come in. She was passing on when the door
opened and Manford called her.
    "'Pon my soul, Nona! That you? I supposed you were in bed long
ago."
    One of the green–shaded lamps lit the big writing–table. Manford's
armchair was drawn up to it, an empty glass and half–consumed
cigarette near by, the evening paper sprawled on the floor.
    "Was that you I heard coming in? Do you know what time it is?"
    "Yes; worse luck! I've been scouring the town after Lita."
    "LITA?"
    "Waiting for her for hours at Tommy Ardwin's. Such a crew! He
told me she was going there to dance for Klawhammer, the Hollywood
man, and I didn't want her to go alone—"
    Manford's face darkened. He lit another cigarette and turned to
his daughter impatiently.
    "What the devil made you believe such a yarn? Klawhammer—!"
    Nona stood facing him; their eyes met, and he turned away with a
shrug to reach for a match.
    "I believed it because, just afterward, the servants told me that
Lita had left, and as they said you'd gone with her I supposed
you'd taken her to Ardwin's, not knowing that I meant to join her
there."
    "Ah; I see." He lit the cigarette and puffed at it for a moment or
two, deliberately. "You're quite right to think she needs looking
after," he began again, in a changed tone. "Somebody's got to take
on the job, since her husband seems to have washed his hands of
it."
    "Father! You know perfectly well that if Jim took on that job—
running after Lita all night from one cabaret to another—he'd lose
the other, the one that keeps them going. Nobody could carry on
both."
    "Hullo, spitfire! Hands off our brother!"
    "Rather." She leaned against the table, her eyes still on him.
"And when Ardwin told me about this Klawhammer film—didn't Lita
mention it to you?"
    He appeared to consider. "She did say Ardwin was bothering her
about something of the kind; so when I found Jim had gone I took
her home myself."
    "Ah—you took her home?"
    Manford, settling himself back in his armchair, met the surprise in
her voice unconcernedly. "Why, of course. Did you really see me
letting her make a show of herself? Sorry you think that's my way
of looking after her."
    Nona, perched on the arm of his chair, enclosed him in a happy hug.
"You goose, you!" she sighed; but the epithet was not for her
father.
    She poured herself a glass of cherry brandy, dropped a kiss on his
thinning hair, and ran up to her room humming Miss Jossie Keiler's
jazz–tune. Perhaps after all it wasn't such a rotten world.

VIII
    The morning after a party in her own house Pauline Manford always
accorded herself an extra half–hour's rest; but on this occasion
she employed it in lying awake and wearily reckoning up the next
day's tasks. Disenchantment had succeeded to the night's glamour.
The glamour of balls never did last: they so quickly became a
matter for those domestic undertakers, the charwomen, housemaids
and electricians. And in this case the taste of pleasure had
soured early. When the doors were thrown open on the beflowered
supper tables not one of the hostess's family was left to marshal
the guests to their places! Her husband, her daughter and son, her
son's wife—all had deserted her. It needed, in that chill morning
vigil, all Pauline's self–control to banish the memory. Not that
she wanted any of them to feel under any obligation—she was all
for personal freedom, self–expression, or whatever they called it
nowadays—but still, a ball was a ball, a host was a host. It was
too bad of Dexter, really; and of Jim too. On Lita of course no
one could count: that was part of the pose people found so
fascinating. But Jim—Jim and Nona to forsake her! What a
ridiculous position it had put her in—but no, she mustn't think of
that now, or those nasty little wrinkles would creep back about her
eyes. The masseuse had warned her… Gracious! At what time
was the masseuse due? She stretched out her hand, turned on the
light by the bed (for the windows were still closely darkened),