Chapter: The autumn dragged on monotonously. Miss Bart had received one or two
notes from Judy Trenor, reproaching her for not returning to Bellomont;
but she replied evasively, alleging the obligation to remain with her
aunt. In truth, however, she was fast wearying of her solitary existence
with Mrs. Peniston, and only the excitement of spending her
newly-acquired money lightened the dulness of the days.

All her life Lily had seen money go out as quickly as it came in, and
whatever theories she cultivated as to the prudence of setting aside a
part of her gains, she had unhappily no saving vision of the risks of the
opposite course. It was a keen satisfaction to feel that, for a few
months at least, she would be independent of her friends' bounty, that
she could show herself abroad without wondering whether some penetrating
eye would detect in her dress the traces of Judy Trenor's refurbished
splendour. The fact that the money freed her temporarily from all minor
obligations obscured her sense of the greater one it represented, and
having never before known what it was to command so large a sum, she
lingered delectably over the amusement of spending it.

It was on one of these occasions that, leaving a shop where she had spent
an hour of deliberation over a dressing-case of the most complicated
elegance, she ran across Miss Farish, who had entered the same
establishment with the modest object of having her watch repaired.  Lily
was feeling unusually virtuous. She had decided to defer the purchase of
the dressing-case till she should receive the bill for her new
opera-cloak, and the resolve made her feel much richer than when she had
entered the shop. In this mood of self-approval she had a sympathetic eye
for others, and she was struck by her friend's air of dejection.

Miss Farish, it appeared, had just left the committee-meeting of a
struggling charity in which she was interested. The object of the
association was to provide comfortable lodgings, with a reading-room and
other modest distractions, where young women of the class employed in
down town offices might find a home when out of work, or in need of rest,
and the first year's financial report showed so deplorably small a
balance that Miss Farish, who was convinced of the urgency of the work,
felt proportionately discouraged by the small amount of interest it
aroused. The other-regarding sentiments had not been cultivated in Lily,
and she was often bored by the relation of her friend's philanthropic
efforts, but today her quick dramatizing fancy seized on the contrast
between her own situation and that represented by some of Gerty's
"cases." These were young girls, like herself; some perhaps pretty, some
not without a trace of her finer sensibilities. She pictured herself
leading such a life as theirs--a life in which achievement seemed as
squalid as failure--and the vision made her shudder sympathetically. The
price of the dressing-case was still in her pocket; and drawing out her
little gold purse she slipped a liberal fraction of the amount into Miss
Farish's hand.

The satisfaction derived from this act was all that the most ardent
moralist could have desired. Lily felt a new interest in herself as a
person of charitable instincts: she had never before thought of doing
good with the wealth she had so often dreamed of possessing, but now her
horizon was enlarged by the vision of a prodigal philanthropy.  Moreover,
by some obscure process of logic, she felt that her momentary burst of
generosity had justified all previous extravagances, and excused any in
which she might subsequently indulge. Miss Farish's surprise and
gratitude confirmed this feeling, and Lily parted from her with a sense
of self-esteem which she naturally mistook for the fruits of altruism.

About this time she was farther cheered by an invitation to spend the
Thanksgiving week at a camp in the Adirondacks. The invitation was one
which, a year earlier, would have provoked a less ready response, for the
party, though organized by Mrs. Fisher, was ostensibly given by a lady of
obscure origin and indomitable social ambitions, whose acquaintance Lily
had hitherto avoided. Now, however, she was disposed to coincide with
Mrs. Fisher's view, that it didn't matter who gave the party, as long as
things were well done; and doing things well (under competent direction)
was Mrs. Wellington Bry's strong point. The lady (whose consort was known
as "Welly" Bry on the Stock Exchange and in sporting circles) had already
sacrificed one husband, and sundry minor considerations, to her
determination to get on; and, having obtained a hold on Carry Fisher, she
was astute enough to perceive the wisdom of committing herself entirely
to that lady's guidance. Everything, accordingly, was well done, for
there was no limit to Mrs. Fisher's prodigality when she was not spending
her own money, and as she remarked to her pupil, a good cook was the best
introduction to society. If the company was not as select as the CUISINE,
the Welly Brys at least had the satisfaction of figuring for the first
time in the society columns in company with one or two noticeable names;
and foremost among these was of course Miss Bart's. The young lady was
treated by her hosts with corresponding deference; and she was in the
mood when such attentions are acceptable, whatever their source. Mrs.
Bry's admiration was a mirror in which Lily's self-complacency recovered
its lost outline. No insect hangs its nest on threads as frail as those
which will sustain the weight of human vanity; and the sense of being of
importance among the insignificant was enough to restore to Miss Bart the
gratifying consciousness of power. If these people paid court to her it
proved that she was still conspicuous in the world to which they aspired;
and she was not above a certain enjoyment in dazzling them by her
fineness, in developing their puzzled perception of her superiorities.

Perhaps, however, her enjoyment proceeded more than she was aware from
the physical stimulus of the excursion, the challenge of crisp cold and
hard exercise, the responsive thrill of her body to the influences of the
winter woods. She returned to town in a glow of rejuvenation, conscious
of a clearer colour in her cheeks, a fresh elasticity in her muscles. The
future seemed full of a vague promise, and all her apprehensions were
swept out of sight on the buoyant current of her mood.

A few days after her return to town she had the unpleasant surprise of a
visit from Mr. Rosedale. He came late, at the confidential hour when the
tea-table still lingers by the fire in friendly expectancy; and his
manner showed a readiness to adapt itself to the intimacy of the occasion.

Lily, who had a vague sense of his being somehow connected with her lucky
speculations, tried to give him the welcome he expected; but there was
something in the quality of his geniality which chilled her own, and she
was conscious of marking each step in their acquaintance by a fresh
blunder.

Mr. Rosedale--making himself promptly at home in an adjoining easy-chair,
and sipping his tea critically, with the comment: "You ought to go to my
man for something really good"--appeared totally unconscious of the
repugnance which kept her in frozen erectness behind the urn. It was
perhaps her very manner of holding herself aloof that appealed to his
collector's passion for the rare and unattainable. He gave, at any rate,
no sign of resenting it and seemed prepared to supply in his own manner
all the ease that was lacking in hers.

His object in calling was to ask her to go to the opera in his box on the
opening night, and seeing her hesitate he said persuasively: "Mrs. Fisher
is coming, and I've secured a tremendous admirer of yours, who'll never
forgive me if you don't accept."

As Lily's silence left him with this allusion on his hands, he added with
a confidential smile: "Gus Trenor has promised to come to town on
purpose. I fancy he'd go a good deal farther for the pleasure of seeing
you."

Miss Bart felt an inward motion of annoyance: it was distasteful enough
to hear her name coupled with Trenor's, and on Rosedale's lips the
allusion was peculiarly unpleasant.

"The Trenors are my best friends--I think we should all go a long way to
see each other," she said, absorbing herself in the preparation of fresh
tea.

Her visitor's smile grew increasingly intimate. "Well, I wasn't thinking
of Mrs. Trenor at the moment--they say Gus doesn't always, you know."
Then, dimly conscious that he had not struck the right note, he added,
with a well-meant effort at diversion: "How's your luck been going in
Wall Street, by the way? I hear Gus pulled off a nice little pile for you
last month."

Lily put down the tea-caddy with an abrupt gesture. She felt that her
hands were trembling, and clasped them on her knee to steady them; but
her lip trembled too, and for a moment she was afraid the tremor might
communicate itself to her voice. When she spoke, however, it was in a
tone of perfect lightness.

"Ah, yes--I had a little bit of money to invest, and Mr. Trenor, who
helps me about such matters, advised my putting it in stocks instead of a
mortgage, as my aunt's agent wanted me to do; and as it happened, I made
a lucky 'turn'--is that what you call it? For you make a great many
yourself, I believe."

She was smiling back at him now, relaxing the tension of her attitude,
and admitting him, by imperceptible gradations of glance and manner, a
step farther toward intimacy. The protective instinct always nerved her
to successful dissimulation, and it was not the first time she had used
her beauty to divert attention from an inconvenient topic.

When Mr. Rosedale took leave, he carried with him, not only her
acceptance of his invitation, but a general sense of having comported
himself in a way calculated to advance his cause. He had always believed
he had a light touch and a knowing way with women, and the prompt manner
in which Miss Bart (as he would have phrased it) had "come into line,"
confirmed his confidence in his powers of handling this skittish sex. Her
way of glossing over the transaction with Trenor he regarded at once as a
tribute to his own acuteness, and a confirmation of his suspicions. The
girl was evidently nervous, and Mr. Rosedale, if he saw no other means of
advancing his acquaintance with her, was not above taking advantage of
her nervousness.

He left Lily to a passion of disgust and fear. It seemed incredible that
Gus Trenor should have spoken of her to Rosedale.  With all his faults,
Trenor had the safeguard of his traditions, and was the less likely to
overstep them because they were so purely instinctive. But Lily recalled
with a pang that there were convivial moments when, as Judy had confided
to her, Gus "talked foolishly": in one of these, no doubt, the fatal word
had slipped from him. As for Rosedale, she did not, after the first
shock, greatly care what conclusions he had drawn.  Though usually adroit
enough where her own interests were concerned, she made the mistake, not
uncommon to persons in whom the social habits are instinctive, of
supposing that the inability to acquire them quickly implies a general
dulness. Because a blue-bottle bangs irrationally against a window-pane,
the drawing-room naturalist may forget that under less artificial
conditions it is capable of measuring distances and drawing conclusions
with all the accuracy needful to its welfare; and the fact that Mr.
Rosedale's drawing-room manner lacked perspective made Lily class him
with Trenor and the other dull men she knew, and assume that a little
flattery, and the occasional acceptance of his hospitality, would suffice
to render him innocuous. However, there could be no doubt of the
expediency of showing herself in his box on the opening night of the
opera; and after all, since Judy Trenor had promised to take him up that
winter, it was as well to reap the advantage of being first in the field.

For a day or two after Rosedale's visit, Lily's thoughts were dogged by
the consciousness of Trenor's shadowy claim, and she wished she had a
clearer notion of the exact nature of the transaction which seemed to
have put her in his power; but her mind shrank from any unusual
application, and she was always helplessly puzzled by figures. Moreover
she had not seen Trenor since the day of the Van Osburgh wedding, and in
his continued absence the trace of Rosedale's words was soon effaced by
other impressions.

When the opening night of the opera came, her apprehensions had so
completely vanished that the sight of Trenor's ruddy countenance in the
back of Mr. Rosedale's box filled her with a sense of pleasant
reassurance. Lily had not quite reconciled herself to the necessity of
appearing as Rosedale's guest on so conspicuous an occasion, and it was a
relief to find herself supported by any one of her own set--for Mrs.
Fisher's social habits were too promiscuous for her presence to justify
Miss Bart's.

To Lily, always inspirited by the prospect of showing her beauty in
public, and conscious tonight of all the added enhancements of dress, the
insistency of Trenor's gaze merged itself in the general stream of
admiring looks of which she felt herself the centre. Ah, it was good to
be young, to be radiant, to glow with the sense of slenderness, strength
and elasticity, of well-poised lines and happy tints, to feel one's self
lifted to a height apart by that incommunicable grace which is the bodily
counterpart of genius!

All means seemed justifiable to attain such an end, or rather, by a happy
shifting of lights with which practice had familiarized Miss Bart, the
cause shrank to a pin-point in the general brightness of the effect. But
brilliant young ladies, a little blinded by their own effulgence, are apt
to forget that the modest satellite drowned in their light is still
performing its own revolutions and generating heat at its own rate. If
Lily's poetic enjoyment of the moment was undisturbed by the base thought
that her gown and opera cloak had been indirectly paid for by Gus Trenor,
the latter had not sufficient poetry in his composition to lose sight of
these prosaic facts. He knew only that he had never seen Lily look
smarter in her life, that there wasn't a woman in the house who showed
off good clothes as she did, and that hitherto he, to whom she owed the
opportunity of making this display, had reaped no return beyond that of
gazing at her in company with several hundred other pairs of eyes.

It came to Lily therefore as a disagreeable surprise when, in the back of
the box, where they found themselves alone between two acts, Trenor said,
without preamble, and in a tone of sulky authority: "Look here, Lily, how
is a fellow ever to see anything of you? I'm in town three or four days
in the week, and you know a line to the club will always find me, but you
don't seem to remember my existence nowadays unless you want to get a tip
out of me."

The fact that the remark was in distinctly bad taste did not make it any
easier to answer, for Lily was vividly aware that it was not the moment
for that drawing up of her slim figure and surprised lifting of the brows
by which she usually quelled incipient signs of familiarity.

"I'm very much flattered by your wanting to see me," she returned,
essaying lightness instead, "but, unless you have mislaid my address, it
would have been easy to find me any afternoon at my aunt's--in fact, I
rather expected you to look me up there."

If she hoped to mollify him by this last concession the attempt was a
failure, for he only replied, with the familiar lowering of the brows
that made him look his dullest when he was angry: "Hang going to your
aunt's, and wasting the afternoon listening to a lot of other chaps
talking to you! You know I'm not the kind to sit in a crowd and jaw--I'd
always rather clear out when that sort of circus is going on.  But why
can't we go off somewhere on a little lark together--a nice quiet little
expedition like that drive at Bellomont, the day you met me at the
station?"

He leaned unpleasantly close in order to convey this suggestion, and she
fancied she caught a significant aroma which explained the dark flush on
his face and the glistening dampness of his forehead.

The idea that any rash answer might provoke an unpleasant outburst
tempered her disgust with caution, and she answered with a laugh: "I
don't see how one can very well take country drives in town, but I am not
always surrounded by an admiring throng, and if you will let me know what
afternoon you are coming I will arrange things so that we can have a nice
quiet talk."

"Hang talking! That's what you always say," returned Trenor, whose
expletives lacked variety. "You put me off with that at the Van Osburgh
wedding--but the plain English of it is that, now you've got what you
wanted out of me, you'd rather have any other fellow about."

His voice had risen sharply with the last words, and Lily flushed with
annoyance, but she kept command of the situation and laid a persuasive
hand on his arm.

"Don't be foolish, Gus; I can't let you talk to me in that ridiculous
way. If you really want to see me, why shouldn't we take a walk in the
Park some afternoon? I agree with you that it's amusing to be rustic in
town, and if you like I'll meet you there, and we'll go and feed the
squirrels, and you shall take me out on the lake in the steam-gondola."

She smiled as she spoke, letting her eyes rest on his in a way that took
the edge from her banter and made him suddenly malleable to her will.

"All right, then: that's a go. Will you come tomorrow? Tomorrow at three
o'clock, at the end of the Mall. I'll be there sharp, remember; you won't
go back on me, Lily?"

But to Miss Bart's relief the repetition of her promise was cut short by
the opening of the box door to admit George Dorset.

Trenor sulkily yielded his place, and Lily turned a brilliant smile on
the newcomer. She had not talked with Dorset since their visit at
Bellomont, but something in his look and manner told her that he recalled
the friendly footing on which they had last met. He was not a man to whom
the expression of admiration came easily: his long sallow face and
distrustful eyes seemed always barricaded against the expansive emotions.
But, where her own influence was concerned, Lily's intuitions sent out
thread-like feelers, and as she made room for him on the narrow sofa she
was sure he found a dumb pleasure in being near her. Few women took the
trouble to make themselves agreeable to Dorset, and Lily had been kind to
him at Bellomont, and was now smiling on him with a divine renewal of
kindness.

"Well, here we are, in for another six months of caterwauling," he began
complainingly. "Not a shade of difference between this year and last,
except that the women have got new clothes and the singers haven't got
new voices. My wife's musical, you know--puts me through a course of this
every winter. It isn't so bad on Italian nights--then she comes late, and
there's time to digest.  But when they give Wagner we have to rush
dinner, and I pay up for it. And the draughts are damnable--asphyxia in
front and pleurisy in the back. There's Trenor leaving the box without
drawing the curtain! With a hide like that draughts don't make any
difference. Did you ever watch Trenor eat? If you did, you'd wonder why
he's alive; I suppose he's leather inside too.--But I came to say that my
wife wants you to come down to our place next Sunday. Do for heaven's
sake say yes. She's got a lot of bores coming--intellectual ones, I mean;
that's her new line, you know, and I'm not sure it ain't worse than the
music. Some of 'em have long hair, and they start an argument with the
soup, and don't notice when things are handed to them. The consequence is
the dinner gets cold, and I have dyspepsia. That silly ass Silverton
brings them to the house--he writes poetry, you know, and Bertha and he
are getting tremendously thick. She could write better than any of 'em if
she chose, and I don't blame her for wanting clever fellows about; all I
say is: 'Don't let me see 'em eat!'"

The gist of this strange communication gave Lily a distinct thrill of
pleasure. Under ordinary circumstances, there would have been nothing
surprising in an invitation from Bertha Dorset; but since the Bellomont
episode an unavowed hostility had kept the two women apart. Now, with a
start of inner wonder, Lily felt that her thirst for retaliation had died
out. IF YOU WOULD FORGIVE YOUR ENEMY, says the Malay proverb, FIRST
INFLICT A HURT ON HIM; and Lily was experiencing the truth of the
apothegm.  If she had destroyed Mrs. Dorset's letters, she might have
continued to hate her; but the fact that they remained in her possession
had fed her resentment to satiety.

She uttered a smiling acceptance, hailing in the renewal of the tie an
escape from Trenor's importunities.

 Autumn continues, and Lily remains with Mrs. Peniston. She spends all the money she keeps getting from Gus, without any forethought or squirreling some away for a rainy day. One day, while she is out shopping , Lily runs into Gerty Farish. Gerty has just come from a meeting regarding her latest philanthropic cause, a Girls Club for working-class women. Lily is touched by the thought of charity and gives a chunk of dough to Gerty for the cause. This makes her feel good about herself, which is why she did it. Around this time, Lily receives an invitation to spend Thanksgiving in the Adirondacks, organized by Carry Fisher. The party is hosted by Mrs. Wellington Bry, "a lady of obscure origins and indomitable social ambitions." Her husband, known as Welly Bry, is a stock exchange guy and Louisa Bry's second match. She dumped the first because he was getting them nowhere. Now she has essentially hooked onto Carry Fisher, who spends Mrs. Bry's money in exchange for pulling her up the social ladder. Mrs. Bry also admires Lily, which is some nice ego-stroking for our heroine. She attends the Thanksgiving festivities and returns home elated. Unfortunately for her spirits, Mr. Rosedale stops by to visit her a few days after she comes back. Now, Lily suspects that he has something to do with her "good luck" on the stock market, so she has to tread carefully here. Rosedale invites her to a seat in his opera box on opening night, adding that Carry Fisher and Gus Trenor will be there as well . Lily finds this whole thing distasteful, but, when Rosedale mentions her recent "luck" on Wall Street, it pretty much drives the point home. She agrees to go. On his way out, Rosedale congratulates himself for playing his cards just right. He knows he "took advantage of nervousness" regarding her relationship with Gus Trenor . Once alone, Lily fumes that Gus dared to tell Rosedale of their little financial arrangement. Still, she knows that Mrs. Trenor is going to break soon and finally introduce Rosedale to society at her arm, so Lily figures she might as well reap the benefits of being one of his early friends. At the opera, Lily spends a few paragraphs basking in the glow of her own radiant beauty and the admiring gazes from those around her. Of course, she doesn't realize that Gus's money paid for that radiant dress she's wearing. But Gus does. And he's mad that he gets no greater privilege with Lily than all the other guys staring at her. When the two of them are alone between acts, Gus asks Lily why it is that he never gets to see her anymore. Lily is offended by his implication that she owes him, but she responds that he can visit her any time he likes at her aunt's. That's not what he had in mind. He wants to be alone with her. They continue to argue until George Dorset's arrival interrupts the discussion. Lily is relieved to see him; she's one of the few women who have taken the time to be nice to Mr. Dorset, and she feels that it will pay off. Dorset chats with Lily for a bit and says that his wife wants him to invite her down to their place next Sunday, to help them deal with all of Ned Silverton's intellectual bores who will be in attendance. He mentions that Ned and Bertha have been getting very close lately. Lily is ecstatic; if Mrs. Dorset wants her over for dinner, it must mean that she intends for them to be friends again. Lily feels no desire for revenge against Bertha - she just wants the malice between them to dissipate.

