“I suppose,” she said aloud, “it’s because she’s married again. As if anybody couldn’t get married. Anybody. That is, if mere marriage is all one wants.”

Smoothing away the tiny frown from between the broad black brows, she got herself into a little shining, rose-colored slip of a frock knotted with a silver cord. The gratifying result soothed her ruffled feelings. It didn’t really matter, this new manner of Anne’s. Nor did the fact that Helga knew that Anne disapproved of her. Without words Anne had managed to make that evident. In her opinion, Helga had lived too long among the enemy, the detestable pale faces. She understood them too well, was too tolerant of their ignorant stupidities. If they had been Latins, Anne might conceivably have forgiven the disloyalty. But Nordics! Lynchers! It was too traitorous. Helga smiled a little, understanding Anne’s bitterness and hate, and a little of its cause. It was of a piece with that of those she so virulently hated. Fear. And then she sighed a little, for she regretted the waning of Anne’s friendship. But, in view of diverging courses of their lives, she felt that even its complete extinction would leave her undevastated. Not that she wasn’t still grateful to Anne for many things. It was only that she had other things now. And there would, forever, be Robert Anderson between them. A nuisance. Shutting them off from their previous confident companionship and understanding. “And anyway,” she said again, aloud, “he’s nobody much to have married. Anybody could have married him. Anybody. If a person wanted only to be married—If it had been somebody like Olsen—That would be different—something to crow over, perhaps.”

The party was even more interesting than Helga had expected. Helen, Mrs. Tavenor, had given vent to a malicious glee, and had invited representatives of several opposing Harlem political and social factions, including the West Indian, and abandoned them helplessly to each other. Helga’s observing eyes picked out several great and near-great sulking or obviously trying hard not to sulk in widely separated places in the big rooms. There were present, also, a few white people, to the open disapproval or discomfort of Anne and several others. There too, poised, serene, certain, surrounded by masculine black and white, was Audrey Denney.

“Do you know, Helen,” Helga confided, “I’ve never met Miss Denney. I wish you’d introduce me. Not this minute. Later, when you can manage it. Not so—er—apparently by request, you know.”

Helen Tavenor laughed. “No, you wouldn’t have met her, living as you did with Anne Grey. Anderson, I mean. She’s Anne’s particular pet aversion. The mere sight of Audrey is enough to send her into a frenzy for a week. It’s too bad, too, because Audrey’s an awfully interesting person and Anne’s said some pretty awful things about her. You’ll like her, Helga.”