before dinner berenice made her appearance, freshened by a bath and clad in a light summer dress that appeared to cowperwood to be all flounces, and the more graceful in its lines for the problematic absence of a corset. her face and hands, however—a face thin, long, and sweetly hollow, and hands that were slim and sinewy—gripped and held his fancy. he was reminded in the least degree of stephanie; but this girl’s chin was firmer and more delicately, though more aggressively, rounded. her eyes, too, were shrewder and less evasive, though subtle enough.
“so i meet you again,” he observed, with a somewhat aloof air, as she came out on the porch and sank listlessly into a wicker chair. “the last time i met you you were hard at work in new york.”
“breaking the rules. no, i forget; that was my easiest work. oh, rolfe,” she called over her shoulder, indifferently, “i see your pocket-knife out on the grass.”
cowperwood, properly suppressed, waited a brief space. “who won that exciting game?”
“i did, of course. i always win at tether-ball.”
“oh, do you?” commented cowperwood.
“i mean with brother, of course. he plays so poorly.” she turned to the west—the house faced south—and studied the road which came up from stroudsburg. “i do believe that’s harry kemp,” she added, quite to herself. “if so, he’ll have my mail, if there is any.”
she got up again and disappeared into the house, coming out a few moments later to saunter down to the gate, which was over a hundred feet away. to cowperwood she seemed to float, so hale and graceful was she. a smart youth in blue serge coat, white trousers, and white shoes drove by in a high-seated trap.
“two letters for you,” he called, in a high, almost falsetto voice. “i thought you would have eight or nine. blessed hot, isn’t it?” he had a smart though somewhat effeminate manner, and cowperwood at once wrote him down as an ass. berenice took the mail with an engaging smile. she sauntered past him reading, without so much as a glance. presently he heard her voice within.
“mother, the haggertys have invited me for the last week in august. i have half a mind to cut tuxedo and go. i like bess haggerty.”
“well, you’ll have to decide that, dearest. are they going to be at tarrytown or loon lake?”
“loon lake, of course,” came berenice’s voice.
what a world of social doings she was involved in, thought cowperwood. she had begun well. the haggertys were rich coal-mine operators in pennsylvania. harris haggerty, to whose family she was probably referring, was worth at least six or eight million. the social world they moved in was high.
they drove after dinner to the saddler, at saddler’s run, where a dance and “moonlight promenade” was to be given. on the way over, owing to the remoteness of berenice, cowperwood for the first time in his life felt himself to be getting old. in spite of the vigor of his mind and body, he realized constantly that he was over fifty-two, while she was only seventeen. why should this lure of youth continue to possess him? she wore a white concoction of lace and silk which showed a pair of smooth young shoulders and a slender, queenly, inimitably modeled neck. he could tell by the sleek lines of her arms how strong she was.
“it is perhaps too late,” he said to himself, in comment. “i am getting old.”
the freshness of the hills in the pale night was sad.
saddler’s, when they reached there after ten, was crowded with the youth and beauty of the vicinity. mrs. carter, who was prepossessing in a ball costume of silver and old rose, expected that cowperwood would dance with her. and he did, but all the time his eyes were on berenice, who was caught up by one youth and another of dapper mien during the progress of the evening and carried rhythmically by in the mazes of the waltz or schottische. there was a new dance in vogue that involved a gay, running step—kicking first one foot and then the other forward, turning and running backward and kicking again, and then swinging with a smart air, back to back, with one’s partner. berenice, in her lithe, rhythmic way, seemed to him the soul of spirited and gracious ease—unconscious of everybody and everything save the spirit of the dance itself as a medium of sweet emotion, of some far-off, dreamlike spirit of gaiety. he wondered. he was deeply impressed.
“berenice,” observed mrs. carter, when in an intermission she came forward to where cowperwood and she were sitting in the moonlight discussing new york and kentucky social life, “haven’t you saved one dance for mr. cowperwood?”
cowperwood, with a momentary feeling of resentment, protested that he did not care to dance any more. mrs. carter, he observed to himself, was a fool.
“i believe,” said her daughter, with a languid air, “that i am full up. i could break one engagement, though, somewhere.”
“not for me, though, please,” pleaded cowperwood. “i don’t care to dance any more, thank you.”
he almost hated her at the moment for a chilly cat. and yet he did not.
“why, bevy, how you talk! i think you are acting very badly this evening.”
“please, please,” pleaded cowperwood, quite sharply. “not any more. i don’t care to dance any more.”
bevy looked at him oddly for a moment—a single thoughtful glance.
“but i have a dance, though,” she pleaded, softly. “i was just teasing. won’t you dance it with me?
“i can’t refuse, of course,” replied cowperwood, coldly.
“it’s the next one,” she replied.
they danced, but he scarcely softened to her at first, so angry was he. somehow, because of all that had gone before, he felt stiff and ungainly. she had managed to break in upon his natural savoir faire—this chit of a girl. but as they went on through a second half the spirit of her dancing soul caught him, and he felt more at ease, quite rhythmic. she drew close and swept him into a strange unison with herself.
“you dance beautifully,” he said.
“i love it,” she replied. she was already of an agreeable height for him.
it was soon over. “i wish you would take me where the ices are,” she said to cowperwood.
he led her, half amused, half disturbed at her attitude toward him.
“you are having a pleasant time teasing me, aren’t you?” he asked.
“i am only tired,” she replied. “the evening bores me. really it does. i wish we were all home.”
“we can go when you say, no doubt.”
as they reached the ices, and she took one from his hand, she surveyed him with those cool, dull blue eyes of hers—eyes that had the flat quality of unglazed dutch tiles.
“i wish you would forgive me,” she said. “i was rude. i couldn’t help it. i am all out of sorts with myself.”
“i hadn’t felt you were rude,” he observed, lying grandly, his mood toward her changing entirely.
“oh yes i was, and i hope you will forgive me. i sincerely wish you would.”
“i do with all my heart—the little that there is to forgive.”
he waited to take her back, and yielded her to a youth who was waiting. he watched her trip away in a dance, and eventually led her mother to the trap. berenice was not with them on the home drive; some one else was bringing her. cowperwood wondered when she would come, and where was her room, and whether she was really sorry, and— as he fell asleep berenice fleming and her slate-blue eyes were filling his mind completely.
