Chapter: When Lily woke on the morning after her translation to the Emporium
Hotel, her first feeling was one of purely physical satisfaction. The
force of contrast gave an added keenness to the luxury of lying once more
in a soft-pillowed bed, and looking across a spacious sunlit room at a
breakfast-table set invitingly near the fire. Analysis and introspection
might come later; but for the moment she was not even troubled by the
excesses of the upholstery or the restless convolutions of the furniture.
The sense of being once more lapped and folded in ease, as in some dense
mild medium impenetrable to discomfort, effectually stilled the faintest
note of criticism.

When, the afternoon before, she had presented herself to the lady to whom
Carry Fisher had directed her, she had been conscious of entering a new
world. Carry's vague presentment of Mrs. Norma Hatch (whose reversion to
her Christian name was explained as the result of her latest divorce),
left her under the implication of coming "from the West," with the not
unusual extenuation of having brought a great deal of money with her. She
was, in short, rich, helpless, unplaced: the very subject for Lily's
hand. Mrs. Fisher had not specified the line her friend was to take; she
owned herself unacquainted with Mrs. Hatch, whom she "knew about" through
Melville Stancy, a lawyer in his leisure moments, and the Falstaff of a
certain section of festive club life.  Socially, Mr. Stancy might have
been said to form a connecting link between the Gormer world and the more
dimly-lit region on which Miss Bart now found herself entering. It was,
however, only figuratively that the illumination of Mrs. Hatch's world
could be described as dim: in actual fact, Lily found her seated in a
blaze of electric light, impartially projected from various ornamental
excrescences on a vast concavity of pink damask and gilding, from which
she rose like Venus from her shell. The analogy was justified by the
appearance of the lady, whose large-eyed prettiness had the fixity of
something impaled and shown under glass. This did not preclude the
immediate discovery that she was some years younger than her visitor, and
that under her showiness, her ease, the aggression of her dress and
voice, there persisted that ineradicable innocence which, in ladies of
her nationality, so curiously coexists with startling extremes of
experience.

The environment in which Lily found herself was as strange to her as its
inhabitants. She was unacquainted with the world of the fashionable New
York hotel--a world over-heated, over-upholstered, and over-fitted with
mechanical appliances for the gratification of fantastic requirements,
while the comforts of a civilized life were as unattainable as in a
desert. Through this atmosphere of torrid splendour moved wan beings as
richly upholstered as the furniture, beings without definite pursuits or
permanent relations, who drifted on a languid tide of curiosity from
restaurant to concert-hall, from palm-garden to music-room, from "art
exhibit" to dress-maker's opening.  High-stepping horses or elaborately
equipped motors waited to carry these ladies into vague metropolitan
distances, whence they returned, still more wan from the weight of their
sables, to be sucked back into the stifling inertia of the hotel routine.
Somewhere behind them, in the background of their lives, there was
doubtless a real past, peopled by real human activities: they themselves
were probably the product of strong ambitions, persistent energies,
diversified contacts with the wholesome roughness of life; yet they had
no more real existence than the poet's shades in limbo.

Lily had not been long in this pallid world without discovering that Mrs.
Hatch was its most substantial figure. That lady, though still floating
in the void, showed faint symptoms of developing an outline; and in this
endeavour she was actively seconded by Mr. Melville Stancy.  It was Mr.
Stancy, a man of large resounding presence, suggestive of convivial
occasions and of a chivalry finding expression in "first-night" boxes and
thousand dollar bonbonnieres, who had transplanted Mrs. Hatch from the
scene of her first development to the higher stage of hotel life in the
metropolis. It was he who had selected the horses with which she had
taken the blue ribbon at the Show, had introduced her to the photographer
whose portraits of her formed the recurring ornament of "Sunday
Supplements," and had got together the group which constituted her social
world. It was a small group still, with heterogeneous figures suspended
in large unpeopled spaces; but Lily did not take long to learn that its
regulation was no longer in Mr. Stancy's hands. As often happens, the
pupil had outstripped the teacher, and Mrs. Hatch was already aware of
heights of elegance as well as depths of luxury beyond the world of the
Emporium.  This discovery at once produced in her a craving for higher
guidance, for the adroit feminine hand which should give the right turn
to her correspondence, the right "look" to her hats, the right succession
to the items of her MENUS. It was, in short, as the regulator of a
germinating social life that Miss Bart's guidance was required; her
ostensible duties as secretary being restricted by the fact that Mrs.
Hatch, as yet, knew hardly any one to write to.

The daily details of Mrs. Hatch's existence were as strange to Lily as
its general tenor. The lady's habits were marked by an Oriental indolence
and disorder peculiarly trying to her companion. Mrs. Hatch and her
friends seemed to float together outside the bounds of time and space. No
definite hours were kept; no fixed obligations existed: night and day
flowed into one another in a blur of confused and retarded engagements,
so that one had the impression of lunching at the tea-hour, while dinner
was often merged in the noisy after-theatre supper which prolonged Mrs.
Hatch's vigil till daylight.

Through this jumble of futile activities came and went a strange throng
of hangers-on--manicures, beauty-doctors, hair-dressers, teachers of
bridge, of French, of "physical development": figures sometimes
indistinguishable, by their appearance, or by Mrs. Hatch's relation to
them, from the visitors constituting her recognized society. But
strangest of all to Lily was the encounter, in this latter group, of
several of her acquaintances.  She had supposed, and not without relief,
that she was passing, for the moment, completely out of her own circle;
but she found that Mr. Stancy, one side of whose sprawling existence
overlapped the edge of Mrs. Fisher's world, had drawn several of its
brightest ornaments into the circle of the Emporium. To find Ned
Silverton among the habitual frequenters of Mrs. Hatch's drawing-room was
one of Lily's first astonishments; but she soon discovered that he was
not Mr. Stancy's most important recruit. It was on little Freddy Van
Osburgh, the small slim heir of the Van Osburgh millions, that the
attention of Mrs. Hatch's group was centred. Freddy, barely out of
college, had risen above the horizon since Lily's eclipse, and she now
saw with surprise what an effulgence he shed on the outer twilight of
Mrs. Hatch's existence. This, then, was one of the things that young men
"went in" for when released from the official social routine; this was
the kind of "previous engagement" that so frequently caused them to
disappoint the hopes of anxious hostesses. Lily had an odd sense of being
behind the social tapestry, on the side where the threads were knotted
and the loose ends hung. For a moment she found a certain amusement in
the show, and in her own share of it: the situation had an ease and
unconventionality distinctly refreshing after her experience of the irony
of conventions. But these flashes of amusement were but brief reactions
from the long disgust of her days. Compared with the vast gilded void of
Mrs. Hatch's existence, the life of Lily's former friends seemed packed
with ordered activities. Even the most irresponsible pretty woman of her
acquaintance had her inherited obligations, her conventional
benevolences, her share in the working of the great civic machine; and
all hung together in the solidarity of these traditional functions. The
performance of specific duties would have simplified Miss Bart's
position; but the vague attendance on Mrs. Hatch was not without its
perplexities.

It was not her employer who created these perplexities. Mrs. Hatch showed
from the first an almost touching desire for Lily's approval.  Far from
asserting the superiority of wealth, her beautiful eyes seemed to urge
the plea of inexperience: she wanted to do what was "nice," to be taught
how to be "lovely." The difficulty was to find any point of contact
between her ideals and Lily's.

Mrs. Hatch swam in a haze of indeterminate enthusiasms, of aspirations
culled from the stage, the newspapers, the fashion journals, and a gaudy
world of sport still more completely beyond her companion's ken.  To
separate from these confused conceptions those most likely to advance the
lady on her way, was Lily's obvious duty; but its performance was
hampered by rapidly-growing doubts. Lily was in fact becoming more and
more aware of a certain ambiguity in her situation.  It was not that she
had, in the conventional sense, any doubt of Mrs. Hatch's
irreproachableness. The lady's offences were always against taste rather
than conduct; her divorce record seemed due to geographical rather than
ethical conditions; and her worst laxities were likely to proceed from a
wandering and extravagant good-nature.  But if Lily did not mind her
detaining her manicure for luncheon, or offering the "Beauty-Doctor" a
seat in Freddy Van Osburgh's box at the play, she was not equally at ease
in regard to some less apparent lapses from convention. Ned Silverton's
relation to Stancy seemed, for instance, closer and less clear than any
natural affinities would warrant; and both appeared united in the effort
to cultivate Freddy Van Osburgh's growing taste for Mrs. Hatch. There was
as yet nothing definable in the situation, which might well resolve
itself into a huge joke on the part of the other two; but Lily had a
vague sense that the subject of their experiment was too young, too rich
and too credulous.  Her embarrassment was increased by the fact that
Freddy seemed to regard her as cooperating with himself in the social
development of Mrs. Hatch: a view that suggested, on his part, a
permanent interest in the lady's future. There were moments when Lily
found an ironic amusement in this aspect of the case. The thought of
launching such a missile as Mrs. Hatch at the perfidious bosom of society
was not without its charm: Miss Bart had even beguiled her leisure with
visions of the fair Norma introduced for the first time to a family
banquet at the Van Osburghs'. But the thought of being personally
connected with the transaction was less agreeable; and her momentary
flashes of amusement were followed by increasing periods of doubt.

The sense of these doubts was uppermost when, late one afternoon, she was
surprised by a visit from Lawrence Selden. He found her alone in the
wilderness of pink damask, for in Mrs. Hatch's world the tea-hour was not
dedicated to social rites, and the lady was in the hands of her masseuse.

Selden's entrance had caused Lily an inward start of embarrassment; but
his air of constraint had the effect of restoring her self-possession,
and she took at once the tone of surprise and pleasure, wondering frankly
that he should have traced her to so unlikely a place, and asking what
had inspired him to make the search.

Selden met this with an unusual seriousness: she had never seen him so
little master of the situation, so plainly at the mercy of any
obstructions she might put in his way. "I wanted to see you," he said;
and she could not resist observing in reply that he had kept his wishes
under remarkable control. She had in truth felt his long absence as one
of the chief bitternesses of the last months: his desertion had wounded
sensibilities far below the surface of her pride.

Selden met the challenge with directness. "Why should I have come, unless
I thought I could be of use to you? It is my only excuse for imagining
you could want me."

This struck her as a clumsy evasion, and the thought gave a flash of
keenness to her answer. "Then you have come now because you think you can
be of use to me?"

He hesitated again. "Yes: in the modest capacity of a person to talk
things over with."

For a clever man it was certainly a stupid beginning; and the idea that
his awkwardness was due to the fear of her attaching a personal
significance to his visit, chilled her pleasure in seeing him. Even under
the most adverse conditions, that pleasure always made itself felt: she
might hate him, but she had never been able to wish him out of the room.
She was very near hating him now; yet the sound of his voice, the way the
light fell on his thin dark hair, the way he sat and moved and wore his
clothes--she was conscious that even these trivial things were inwoven
with her deepest life. In his presence a sudden stillness came upon her,
and the turmoil of her spirit ceased; but an impulse of resistance to
this stealing influence now prompted her to say: "It's very good of you
to present yourself in that capacity; but what makes you think I have
anything particular to talk about?"

Though she kept the even tone of light intercourse, the question was
framed in a way to remind him that his good offices were unsought; and
for a moment Selden was checked by it. The situation between them was one
which could have been cleared up only by a sudden explosion of feeling;
and their whole training and habit of mind were against the chances of
such an explosion. Selden's calmness seemed rather to harden into
resistance, and Miss Bart's into a surface of glittering irony, as they
faced each other from the opposite corners of one of Mrs. Hatch's
elephantine sofas. The sofa in question, and the apartment peopled by its
monstrous mates, served at length to suggest the turn of Selden's reply.

"Gerty told me that you were acting as Mrs. Hatch's secretary; and I knew
she was anxious to hear how you were getting on."

Miss Bart received this explanation without perceptible softening. "Why
didn't she look me up herself, then?" she asked.

"Because, as you didn't send her your address, she was afraid of being
importunate." Selden continued with a smile: "You see no such scruples
restrained me; but then I haven't as much to risk if I incur your
displeasure."

Lily answered his smile. "You haven't incurred it as yet; but I have an
idea that you are going to."

"That rests with you, doesn't it? You see my initiative doesn't go beyond
putting myself at your disposal."

"But in what capacity? What am I to do with you?" she asked in the same
light tone.

Selden again glanced about Mrs. Hatch's drawing-room; then he said, with
a decision which he seemed to have gathered from this final inspection:
"You are to let me take you away from here."

Lily flushed at the suddenness of the attack; then she stiffened under it
and said coldly: "And may I ask where you mean me to go?"

"Back to Gerty in the first place, if you will; the essential thing is
that it should be away from here."

The unusual harshness of his tone might have shown her how much the words
cost him; but she was in no state to measure his feelings while her own
were in a flame of revolt. To neglect her, perhaps even to avoid her, at
a time when she had most need of her friends, and then suddenly and
unwarrantably to break into her life with this strange assumption of
authority, was to rouse in her every instinct of pride and self-defence.

"I am very much obliged to you," she said, "for taking such an interest
in my plans; but I am quite contented where I am, and have no intention
of leaving."

Selden had risen, and was standing before her in an attitude of
uncontrollable expectancy.

"That simply means that you don't know where you are!" he exclaimed.

Lily rose also, with a quick flash of anger. "If you have come here to
say disagreeable things about Mrs. Hatch----"

"It is only with your relation to Mrs. Hatch that I am concerned."

"My relation to Mrs. Hatch is one I have no reason to be ashamed of.  She
has helped me to earn a living when my old friends were quite resigned to
seeing me starve."

"Nonsense! Starvation is not the only alternative. You know you can
always find a home with Gerty till you are independent again."

"You show such an intimate acquaintance with my affairs that I suppose
you mean--till my aunt's legacy is paid?"

"I do mean that; Gerty told me of it," Selden acknowledged without
embarrassment. He was too much in earnest now to feel any false
constraint in speaking his mind.

"But Gerty does not happen to know," Miss Bart rejoined, "that I owe
every penny of that legacy."

"Good God!" Selden exclaimed, startled out of his composure by the
abruptness of the statement.

"Every penny of it, and more too," Lily repeated; "and you now perhaps
see why I prefer to remain with Mrs. Hatch rather than take advantage of
Gerty's kindness. I have no money left, except my small income, and I
must earn something more to keep myself alive."

Selden hesitated a moment; then he rejoined in a quieter tone: "But with
your income and Gerty's--since you allow me to go so far into the details
of the situation--you and she could surely contrive a life together which
would put you beyond the need of having to support yourself. Gerty, I
know, is eager to make such an arrangement, and would be quite happy in
it----"

"But I should not," Miss Bart interposed. "There are many reasons why it
would be neither kind to Gerty nor wise for myself." She paused a moment,
and as he seemed to await a farther explanation, added with a quick lift
of her head: "You will perhaps excuse me from giving you these reasons."

"I have no claim to know them," Selden answered, ignoring her tone; "no
claim to offer any comment or suggestion beyond the one I have already
made. And my right to make that is simply the universal right of a man to
enlighten a woman when he sees her unconsciously placed in a false
position."

Lily smiled. "I suppose," she rejoined, "that by a false position you
mean one outside of what we call society; but you must remember that I
had been excluded from those sacred precincts long before I met Mrs.
Hatch. As far as I can see, there is very little real difference in being
inside or out, and I remember your once telling me that it was only those
inside who took the difference seriously."

She had not been without intention in making this allusion to their
memorable talk at Bellomont, and she waited with an odd tremor of the
nerves to see what response it would bring; but the result of the
experiment was disappointing. Selden did not allow the allusion to
deflect him from his point; he merely said with completer fulness of
emphasis: "The question of being inside or out is, as you say, a small
one, and it happens to have nothing to do with the case, except in so far
as Mrs. Hatch's desire to be inside may put you in the position I call
false."

In spite of the moderation of his tone, each word he spoke had the effect
of confirming Lily's resistance. The very apprehensions he aroused
hardened her against him: she had been on the alert for the note of
personal sympathy, for any sign of recovered power over him; and his
attitude of sober impartiality, the absence of all response to her
appeal, turned her hurt pride to blind resentment of his interference.
The conviction that he had been sent by Gerty, and that, whatever straits
he conceived her to be in, he would never voluntarily have come to her
aid, strengthened her resolve not to admit him a hair's breadth farther
into her confidence. However doubtful she might feel her situation to be,
she would rather persist in darkness than owe her enlightenment to Selden.

"I don't know," she said, when he had ceased to speak, "why you imagine
me to be situated as you describe; but as you have always told me that
the sole object of a bringing-up like mine was to teach a girl to get
what she wants, why not assume that that is precisely what I am doing?"

The smile with which she summed up her case was like a clear barrier
raised against farther confidences: its brightness held him at such a
distance that he had a sense of being almost out of hearing as he
rejoined: "I am not sure that I have ever called you a successful example
of that kind of bringing-up."

Her colour rose a little at the implication, but she steeled herself with
a light laugh. "Ah, wait a little longer--give me a little more time
before you decide!" And as he wavered before her, still watching for a
break in the impenetrable front she presented: "Don't give me up; I may
still do credit to my training!" she affirmed.

 At taking a job as secretary to Mrs. Norma Hatch, Lily at first feels relief. She gets to stay in a fancy hotel once again and be waited on by servants. Mrs. Hatch came from the West, brought a lot of money with her, and is trying to break into the New York social scene. She's been divorced more than once, and Mrs. Fisher knows her through a mutual acquaintance, a lawyer named Melville Stancy. Mrs. Hatch and her friends are lower down the social ladder than the Gormers. Lily is awed by this very different world of New York society. She regards the people in it as mere shades or shadows and soon discovers that her boss, Mrs. Hatch, is a central figure among them, as is young Bertie Van Osburgh, who is in a romance of sorts with Norma. Lily is well-suited to the job of managing Mrs. Hatch's social life, but it's hard to find common ground between what Mrs. Hatch wants - to be "lovely" and "nice" - and Lily's own ideals. Lily is amused by Bertie's romance with Norma, and she has the feeling that he wants to work together with Lily to make her suitable for society. Still, Lily finds the thought of introducing Norma to the world at a Van Osburgh party to be laughable. Finally, Selden comes to Norma's hotel to talk to Lily. He says that he came because he thought he could be of use to her - he knows that that's the only way she'd want to see him, anyway. Then, he clarifies: he wants to be someone that she can talk things over with. Lily evades his point, claiming that there's nothing to talk about and that her life is just fine and dandy. Selden isn't fooled. He knows Lily is stooping by associating with these people, and he asks her to let him take her away from here, back to Gerty, who can help her. He tells her that she could live a very reasonable life off of the ten thousand dollars her aunt left her. Lily then informs Selden that she owes her entire legacy already. He's shocked to hear this, but still insists that Gerty could help Lily get on her feet. She again refuses. Then she references their conversation at Bellomont: didn't Selden tell her that the "sole object" of her upbringing was to get what she wanted? Selden responds that he never thought of Lily as a successful example of such an upbringing. Lily says to give her time, that she "may still do credit to training."

