She herself worried a good deal. What was she to say? She couldn’t go on indefinitely, telling people that Stephen had arrived so late on a Saturday and been obliged to go back so early Sunday, that he hadn’t seen any of his friends. Nor could she repeat many times the subterfuge she had successfully carried through once, of stealing across the river, and burying herself for three or four miserable days in the little red cottage with her father, returning with the story that she had been in New York.

It had been necessary to practice involving deceptions in explaining her absence from such generally discussed functions as the River Club costume dance, and the Annual Charity Ball. Once she had pretended a turned ankle, another time a headache. But the truth was that on both occasions she had stayed at home and had gone to bed at ten o’clock, because no one had invited her to a dinner-party beforehand. She couldn’t go to a dance without either a man or a party!

She had tried to get up a party of her own before the ball. But everybody’s plans seemed to be made. Rosamond might easily have included her in the dinner-party she gave. She had two extra men. Neither Edith nor Rosamond had had her to a single dinner-party since Stephen had gone to New York! And they were her “best friends” in Milhampton now. She had had them one night, with two other couples. A real party! Ten in all. She had given them two cocktails apiece and a generous amount of Stephen’s champagne. Not one of her guests had reciprocated yet by an invitation of any kind.

The possibility of an empty engagement calendar, the consideration of long stretches of idle days with no climaxes at their ends, filled Stella with alarm. Frightening ghosts of various kinds filtered through the cracks of Stella’s bedroom, during this time, woke her up every morning about five, and kept her awake until it was time to get up and dress. The tragic idleness of a certain new gown she had bought in January haunted her day and night. Never had a new dress of hers remained new so long. For three weeks it had hung in the closet, just as it had been lifted from its box. Stella longed to wear the gown. It would make an impression. Now that she could no longer contribute a man to society it was necessary for her to contribute at least an impression. A conspicuous gown could do a lot for a woman at a dance, Stella believed.

“But it can’t if it hangs in the closet,” she sobbed into her pillow.

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