Chapter: The next morning, on her breakfast tray, Miss Bart found a note from her
hostess.

"Dearest Lily," it ran, "if it is not too much of a bore to be down by
ten, will you come to my sitting-room to help me with some tiresome
things?"

Lily tossed aside the note and subsided on her pillows with a sigh. It
WAS a bore to be down by ten--an hour regarded at Bellomont as vaguely
synchronous with sunrise--and she knew too well the nature of the
tiresome things in question. Miss Pragg, the secretary, had been called
away, and there would be notes and dinner-cards to write, lost addresses
to hunt up, and other social drudgery to perform. It was understood that
Miss Bart should fill the gap in such emergencies, and she usually
recognized the obligation without a murmur.

Today, however, it renewed the sense of servitude which the previous
night's review of her cheque-book had produced.  Everything in her
surroundings ministered to feelings of ease and amenity. The windows
stood open to the sparkling freshness of the September morning, and
between the yellow boughs she caught a perspective of hedges and
parterres leading by degrees of lessening formality to the free
undulations of the park. Her maid had kindled a little fire on the
hearth, and it contended cheerfully with the sunlight which slanted
across the moss-green carpet and caressed the curved sides of an old
marquetry desk.  Near the bed stood a table holding her breakfast tray,
with its harmonious porcelain and silver, a handful of violets in a
slender glass, and the morning paper folded beneath her letters.  There
was nothing new to Lily in these tokens of a studied luxury; but, though
they formed a part of her atmosphere, she never lost her sensitiveness to
their charm. Mere display left her with a sense of superior distinction;
but she felt an affinity to all the subtler manifestations of wealth.

Mrs. Trenor's summons, however, suddenly recalled her state of
dependence, and she rose and dressed in a mood of irritability that she
was usually too prudent to indulge. She knew that such emotions leave
lines on the face as well as in the character, and she had meant to take
warning by the little creases which her midnight survey had revealed.

The matter-of-course tone of Mrs. Trenor's greeting deepened her
irritation. If one did drag one's self out of bed at such an hour, and
come down fresh and radiant to the monotony of note-writing, some special
recognition of the sacrifice seemed fitting. But Mrs. Trenor's tone
showed no consciousness of the fact.

"Oh, Lily, that's nice of you," she merely sighed across the chaos of
letters, bills and other domestic documents which gave an incongruously
commercial touch to the slender elegance of her writing-table.

"There are such lots of horrors this morning," she added, clearing a
space in the centre of the confusion and rising to yield her seat to Miss
Bart.

Mrs. Trenor was a tall fair woman, whose height just saved her from
redundancy. Her rosy blondness had survived some forty years of futile
activity without showing much trace of ill-usage except in a diminished
play of feature. It was difficult to define her beyond saying that she
seemed to exist only as a hostess, not so much from any exaggerated
instinct of hospitality as because she could not sustain life except in a
crowd. The collective nature of her interests exempted her from the
ordinary rivalries of her sex, and she knew no more personal emotion than
that of hatred for the woman who presumed to give bigger dinners or have
more amusing house-parties than herself. As her social talents, backed by
Mr. Trenor's bank-account, almost always assured her ultimate triumph in
such competitions, success had developed in her an unscrupulous good
nature toward the rest of her sex, and in Miss Bart's utilitarian
classification of her friends, Mrs. Trenor ranked as the woman who was
least likely to "go back" on her.

"It was simply inhuman of Pragg to go off now," Mrs. Trenor declared, as
her friend seated herself at the desk. "She says her sister is going to
have a baby--as if that were anything to having a house-party! I'm sure I
shall get most horribly mixed up and there will be some awful rows. When
I was down at Tuxedo I asked a lot of people for next week, and I've
mislaid the list and can't remember who is coming. And this week is going
to be a horrid failure too--and Gwen Van Osburgh will go back and tell
her mother how bored people were. I did mean to ask the Wetheralls--that
was a blunder of Gus's. They disapprove of Carry Fisher, you know. As if
one could help having Carry Fisher! It WAS foolish of her to get that
second divorce--Carry always overdoes things--but she said the only way
to get a penny out of Fisher was to divorce him and make him pay alimony.
And poor Carry has to consider every dollar. It's really absurd of Alice
Wetherall to make such a fuss about meeting her, when one thinks of what
society is coming to. Some one said the other day that there was a
divorce and a case of appendicitis in every family one knows. Besides,
Carry is the only person who can keep Gus in a good humour when we have
bores in the house. Have you noticed that ALL the husbands like her? All,
I mean, except her own. It's rather clever of her to have made a
specialty of devoting herself to dull people--the field is such a large
one, and she has it practically to herself. She finds compensations, no
doubt--I know she borrows money of Gus--but then I'd PAY her to keep him
in a good humour, so I can't complain, after all."

Mrs. Trenor paused to enjoy the spectacle of Miss Bart's efforts to
unravel her tangled correspondence.

"But it is only the Wetheralls and Carry," she resumed, with a fresh note
of lament. "The truth is, I'm awfully disappointed in Lady Cressida
Raith."

"Disappointed? Had you known her before?"

"Mercy, no--never saw her till yesterday. Lady Skiddaw sent her over with
letters to the Van Osburghs, and I heard that Maria Van Osburgh was
asking a big party to meet her this week, so I thought it would be fun to
get her away, and Jack Stepney, who knew her in India, managed it for me.
Maria was furious, and actually had the impudence to make Gwen invite
herself here, so that they shouldn't be QUITE out of it--if I'd known
what Lady Cressida was like, they could have had her and welcome! But I
thought any friend of the Skiddaws' was sure to be amusing. You remember
what fun Lady Skiddaw was? There were times when I simply had to send the
girls out of the room. Besides, Lady Cressida is the Duchess of
Beltshire's sister, and I naturally supposed she was the same sort; but
you never can tell in those English families. They are so big that
there's room for all kinds, and it turns out that Lady Cressida is the
moral one--married a clergy-man and does missionary work in the East End.
Think of my taking such a lot of trouble about a clergyman's wife, who
wears Indian jewelry and botanizes! She made Gus take her all through the
glass-houses yesterday, and bothered him to death by asking him the names
of the plants. Fancy treating Gus as if he were the gardener!"

Mrs. Trenor brought this out in a CRESCENDO of indignation.

"Oh, well, perhaps Lady Cressida will reconcile the Wetheralls to meeting
Carry Fisher," said Miss Bart pacifically.

"I'm sure I hope so! But she is boring all the men horribly, and if she
takes to distributing tracts, as I hear she does, it will be too
depressing. The worst of it is that she would have been so useful at the
right time. You know we have to have the Bishop once a year, and she
would have given just the right tone to things. I always have horrid luck
about the Bishop's visits," added Mrs. Trenor, whose present misery was
being fed by a rapidly rising tide of reminiscence; "last year, when he
came, Gus forgot all about his being here, and brought home the Ned
Wintons and the Farleys--five divorces and six sets of children between
them!"

"When is Lady Cressida going?" Lily enquired.

Mrs. Trenor cast up her eyes in despair. "My dear, if one only knew! I
was in such a hurry to get her away from Maria that I actually forgot to
name a date, and Gus says she told some one she meant to stop here all
winter."

"To stop here? In this house?"

"Don't be silly--in America. But if no one else asks her--you know they
NEVER go to hotels."

"Perhaps Gus only said it to frighten you."

"No--I heard her tell Bertha Dorset that she had six months to put in
while her husband was taking the cure in the Engadine. You should have
seen Bertha look vacant! But it's no joke, you know--if she stays here
all the autumn she'll spoil everything, and Maria Van Osburgh will simply
exult."

At this affecting vision Mrs. Trenor's voice trembled with self-pity.

"Oh, Judy--as if any one were ever bored at Bellomont!" Miss Bart
tactfully protested. "You know perfectly well that, if Mrs. Van Osburgh
were to get all the right people and leave you with all the wrong ones,
you'd manage to make things go off, and she wouldn't."

Such an assurance would usually have restored Mrs. Trenor's complacency;
but on this occasion it did not chase the cloud from her brow.

"It isn't only Lady Cressida," she lamented. "Everything has gone wrong
this week. I can see that Bertha Dorset is furious with me."

"Furious with you? Why?"

"Because I told her that Lawrence Selden was coming; but he wouldn't,
after all, and she's quite unreasonable enough to think it's my fault."

Miss Bart put down her pen and sat absently gazing at the note she had
begun.

"I thought that was all over," she said.

"So it is, on his side. And of course Bertha has been idle since.  But I
fancy she's out of a job just at present--and some one gave me a hint
that I had better ask Lawrence. Well, I DID ask him--but I couldn't make
him come; and now I suppose she'll take it out of me by being perfectly
nasty to every one else."

"Oh, she may take it out of HIM by being perfectly charming--to some one
else."

Mrs. Trenor shook her head dolefully. "She knows he wouldn't mind. And
who else is there? Alice Wetherall won't let Lucius out of her sight.
Ned Silverton can't take his eyes off Carry Fisher--poor boy! Gus is
bored by Bertha, Jack Stepney knows her too well--and--well, to be sure,
there's Percy Gryce!"

She sat up smiling at the thought.

Miss Bart's countenance did not reflect the smile.

"Oh, she and Mr. Gryce would not be likely to hit it off."

"You mean that she'd shock him and he'd bore her? Well, that's not such a
bad beginning, you know. But I hope she won't take it into her head to be
nice to him, for I asked him here on purpose for you."

Lily laughed. "MERCI DU COMPLIMENT! I should certainly have no show
against Bertha."

"Do you think I am uncomplimentary? I'm not really, you know.  Every one
knows you're a thousand times handsomer and cleverer than Bertha; but
then you're not nasty. And for always getting what she wants in the long
run, commend me to a nasty woman."

Miss Bart stared in affected reproval. "I thought you were so fond of
Bertha."

"Oh, I am--it's much safer to be fond of dangerous people. But she IS
dangerous--and if I ever saw her up to mischief it's now.  I can tell by
poor George's manner. That man is a perfect barometer--he always knows
when Bertha is going to----"

"To fall?" Miss Bart suggested.

"Don't be shocking! You know he believes in her still. And of course I
don't say there's any real harm in Bertha. Only she delights in making
people miserable, and especially poor George."

"Well, he seems cut out for the part--I don't wonder she likes more
cheerful companionship."

"Oh, George is not as dismal as you think. If Bertha did worry him he
would be quite different. Or if she'd leave him alone, and let him
arrange his life as he pleases. But she doesn't dare lose her hold of him
on account of the money, and so when HE isn't jealous she pretends to be."

Miss Bart went on writing in silence, and her hostess sat following her
train of thought with frowning intensity.

"Do you know," she exclaimed after a long pause, "I believe I'll call up
Lawrence on the telephone and tell him he simply MUST come?"

"Oh, don't," said Lily, with a quick suffusion of colour. The blush
surprised her almost as much as it did her hostess, who, though not
commonly observant of facial changes, sat staring at her with puzzled
eyes.

"Good gracious, Lily, how handsome you are! Why? Do you dislike him so
much?"

"Not at all; I like him. But if you are actuated by the benevolent
intention of protecting me from Bertha--I don't think I need your
protection."

Mrs. Trenor sat up with an exclamation. "Lily!----PERCY? Do you mean to
say you've actually done it?"

Miss Bart smiled. "I only mean to say that Mr. Gryce and I are getting to
be very good friends."

"H'm--I see." Mrs. Trenor fixed a rapt eye upon her. "You know they say
he has eight hundred thousand a year--and spends nothing, except on some
rubbishy old books. And his mother has heart-disease and will leave him a
lot more. OH, LILY, DO GO SLOWLY," her friend adjured her.

Miss Bart continued to smile without annoyance. "I shouldn't, for
instance," she remarked, "be in any haste to tell him that he had a lot
of rubbishy old books."

"No, of course not; I know you're wonderful about getting up people's
subjects. But he's horribly shy, and easily shocked, and--and----"

"Why don't you say it, Judy? I have the reputation of being on the hunt
for a rich husband?"

"Oh, I don't mean that; he wouldn't believe it of you--at first," said
Mrs. Trenor, with candid shrewdness. "But you know things are rather
lively here at times--I must give Jack and Gus a hint--and if he thought
you were what his mother would call fast--oh, well, you know what I mean.
Don't wear your scarlet CREPE-DE-CHINE for dinner, and don't smoke if you
can help it, Lily dear!"

Lily pushed aside her finished work with a dry smile. "You're very kind,
Judy: I'll lock up my cigarettes and wear that last year's dress you sent
me this morning. And if you are really interested in my career, perhaps
you'll be kind enough not to ask me to play bridge again this evening."

"Bridge? Does he mind bridge, too? Oh, Lily, what an awful life you'll
lead! But of course I won't--why didn't you give me a hint last night?
There's nothing I wouldn't do, you poor duck, to see you happy!"

And Mrs. Trenor, glowing with her sex's eagerness to smooth the course of
true love, enveloped Lily in a long embrace.

"You're quite sure," she added solicitously, as the latter extricated
herself, "that you wouldn't like me to telephone for Lawrence Selden?"

"Quite sure," said Lily.



The next three days demonstrated to her own complete satisfaction Miss
Bart's ability to manage her affairs without extraneous aid.

As she sat, on the Saturday afternoon, on the terrace at Bellomont, she
smiled at Mrs. Trenor's fear that she might go too fast. If such a
warning had ever been needful, the years had taught her a salutary
lesson, and she flattered herself that she now knew how to adapt her pace
to the object of pursuit. In the case of Mr. Gryce she had found it well
to flutter ahead, losing herself elusively and luring him on from depth
to depth of unconscious intimacy. The surrounding atmosphere was
propitious to this scheme of courtship. Mrs. Trenor, true to her word,
had shown no signs of expecting Lily at the bridge-table, and had even
hinted to the other card-players that they were to betray no surprise at
her unwonted defection. In consequence of this hint, Lily found herself
the centre of that feminine solicitude which envelops a young woman in
the mating season. A solitude was tacitly created for her in the crowded
existence of Bellomont, and her friends could not have shown a greater
readiness for self-effacement had her wooing been adorned with all the
attributes of romance. In Lily's set this conduct implied a sympathetic
comprehension of her motives, and Mr. Gryce rose in her esteem as she saw
the consideration he inspired.

The terrace at Bellomont on a September afternoon was a spot propitious
to sentimental musings, and as Miss Bart stood leaning against the
balustrade above the sunken garden, at a little distance from the
animated group about the tea-table, she might have been lost in the mazes
of an inarticulate happiness. In reality, her thoughts were finding
definite utterance in the tranquil recapitulation of the blessings in
store for her. From where she stood she could see them embodied in the
form of Mr. Gryce, who, in a light overcoat and muffler, sat somewhat
nervously on the edge of his chair, while Carry Fisher, with all the
energy of eye and gesture with which nature and art had combined to endow
her, pressed on him the duty of taking part in the task of municipal
reform.

Mrs. Fisher's latest hobby was municipal reform. It had been preceded by
an equal zeal for socialism, which had in turn replaced an energetic
advocacy of Christian Science. Mrs. Fisher was small, fiery and dramatic;
and her hands and eyes were admirable instruments in the service of
whatever causes she happened to espouse. She had, however, the fault
common to enthusiasts of ignoring any slackness of response on the part
of her hearers, and Lily was amused by her unconsciousness of the
resistance displayed in every angle of Mr. Gryce's attitude.  Lily
herself knew that his mind was divided between the dread of catching cold
if he remained out of doors too long at that hour, and the fear that, if
he retreated to the house, Mrs. Fisher might follow him up with a paper
to be signed. Mr. Gryce had a constitutional dislike to what he called
"committing himself," and tenderly as he cherished his health, he
evidently concluded that it was safer to stay out of reach of pen and ink
till chance released him from Mrs. Fisher's toils. Meanwhile he cast
agonized glances in the direction of Miss Bart, whose only response was
to sink into an attitude of more graceful abstraction. She had learned
the value of contrast in throwing her charms into relief, and was fully
aware of the extent to which Mrs. Fisher's volubility was enhancing her
own repose.

She was roused from her musings by the approach of her cousin Jack
Stepney who, at Gwen Van Osburgh's side, was returning across the garden
from the tennis court.

The couple in question were engaged in the same kind of romance in which
Lily figured, and the latter felt a certain annoyance in contemplating
what seemed to her a caricature of her own situation.  Miss Van Osburgh
was a large girl with flat surfaces and no high lights: Jack Stepney had
once said of her that she was as reliable as roast mutton. His own taste
was in the line of less solid and more highly-seasoned diet; but hunger
makes any fare palatable, and there had been times when Mr. Stepney had
been reduced to a crust.

Lily considered with interest the expression of their faces: the girl's
turned toward her companion's like an empty plate held up to be filled,
while the man lounging at her side already betrayed the encroaching
boredom which would presently crack the thin veneer of his smile.

"How impatient men are!" Lily reflected. "All Jack has to do to get
everything he wants is to keep quiet and let that girl marry him; whereas
I have to calculate and contrive, and retreat and advance, as if I were
going through an intricate dance, where one misstep would throw me
hopelessly out of time."

As they drew nearer she was whimsically struck by a kind of family
likeness between Miss Van Osburgh and Percy Gryce. There was no
resemblance of feature. Gryce was handsome in a didactic way--he looked
like a clever pupil's drawing from a plaster-cast--while Gwen's
countenance had no more modelling than a face painted on a toy balloon.
But the deeper affinity was unmistakable: the two had the same prejudices
and ideals, and the same quality of making other standards non-existent
by ignoring them. This attribute was common to most of Lily's set: they
had a force of negation which eliminated everything beyond their own
range of perception. Gryce and Miss Van Osburgh were, in short, made for
each other by every law of moral and physical correspondence----"Yet they
wouldn't look at each other," Lily mused, "they never do. Each of them
wants a creature of a different race, of Jack's race and mine, with all
sorts of intuitions, sensations and perceptions that they don't even
guess the existence of. And they always get what they want."

She stood talking with her cousin and Miss Van Osburgh, till a slight
cloud on the latter's brow advised her that even cousinly amenities were
subject to suspicion, and Miss Bart, mindful of the necessity of not
exciting enmities at this crucial point of her career, dropped aside
while the happy couple proceeded toward the tea-table.

Seating herself on the upper step of the terrace, Lily leaned her head
against the honeysuckles wreathing the balustrade. The fragrance of the
late blossoms seemed an emanation of the tranquil scene, a landscape
tutored to the last degree of rural elegance. In the foreground glowed
the warm tints of the gardens.  Beyond the lawn, with its pyramidal
pale-gold maples and velvety firs, sloped pastures dotted with cattle;
and through a long glade the river widened like a lake under the silver
light of September. Lily did not want to join the circle about the
tea-table. They represented the future she had chosen, and she was
content with it, but in no haste to anticipate its joys. The certainty
that she could marry Percy Gryce when she pleased had lifted a heavy load
from her mind, and her money troubles were too recent for their removal
not to leave a sense of relief which a less discerning intelligence might
have taken for happiness. Her vulgar cares were at an end. She would be
able to arrange her life as she pleased, to soar into that empyrean of
security where creditors cannot penetrate. She would have smarter gowns
than Judy Trenor, and far, far more jewels than Bertha Dorset. She would
be free forever from the shifts, the expedients, the humiliations of the
relatively poor. Instead of having to flatter, she would be flattered;
instead of being grateful, she would receive thanks. There were old
scores she could pay off as well as old benefits she could return. And
she had no doubts as to the extent of her power. She knew that Mr. Gryce
was of the small chary type most inaccessible to impulses and emotions.
He had the kind of character in which prudence is a vice, and good advice
the most dangerous nourishment. But Lily had known the species before:
she was aware that such a guarded nature must find one huge outlet of
egoism, and she determined to be to him what his Americana had hitherto
been: the one possession in which he took sufficient pride to spend money
on it. She knew that this generosity to self is one of the forms of
meanness, and she resolved so to identify herself with her husband's
vanity that to gratify her wishes would be to him the most exquisite form
of self-indulgence. The system might at first necessitate a resort to
some of the very shifts and expedients from which she intended it should
free her; but she felt sure that in a short time she would be able to
play the game in her own way. How should she have distrusted her powers?
Her beauty itself was not the mere ephemeral possession it might have
been in the hands of inexperience: her skill in enhancing it, the care
she took of it, the use she made of it, seemed to give it a kind of
permanence. She felt she could trust it to carry her through to the end.

And the end, on the whole, was worthwhile. Life was not the mockery she
had thought it three days ago. There was room for her, after all, in this
crowded selfish world of pleasure whence, so short a time since, her
poverty had seemed to exclude her.  These people whom she had ridiculed
and yet envied were glad to make a place for her in the charmed circle
about which all her desires revolved. They were not as brutal and
self-engrossed as she had fancied--or rather, since it would no longer be
necessary to flatter and humour them, that side of their nature became
less conspicuous. Society is a revolving body which is apt to be judged
according to its place in each man's heaven; and at present it was
turning its illuminated face to Lily.

In the rosy glow it diffused her companions seemed full of amiable
qualities. She liked their elegance, their lightness, their lack of
emphasis: even the self-assurance which at times was so like obtuseness
now seemed the natural sign of social ascendency. They were lords of the
only world she cared for, and they were ready to admit her to their ranks
and let her lord it with them. Already she felt within her a stealing
allegiance to their standards, an acceptance of their limitations, a
disbelief in the things they did not believe in, a contemptuous pity for
the people who were not able to live as they lived.

The early sunset was slanting across the park. Through the boughs of the
long avenue beyond the gardens she caught the flash of wheels, and
divined that more visitors were approaching. There was a movement behind
her, a scattering of steps and voices: it was evident that the party
about the tea-table was breaking up.  Presently she heard a tread behind
her on the terrace. She supposed that Mr. Gryce had at last found means
to escape from his predicament, and she smiled at the significance of his
coming to join her instead of beating an instant retreat to the fire-side.

She turned to give him the welcome which such gallantry deserved; but her
greeting wavered into a blush of wonder, for the man who had approached
her was Lawrence Selden.

"You see I came after all," he said; but before she had time to answer,
Mrs. Dorset, breaking away from a lifeless colloquy with her host, had
stepped between them with a little gesture of appropriation.

 When she wakes the next morning, Lily finds a note from Mrs. Trenor asking her to help out with some "tiresome things" since Mrs. Trenor's secretary is away. Lily drags herself out of bed and downstairs. We get a brief description of Mrs. Trenor as the ultimate hostess, with her husband's massive bank account to back up her social ambitions. Because she has so much money, no one is a threat to her, which means she can be nice to everyone. At the moment, she's worried about her upcoming party. Carry Fisher is going to be there; high society doesn't like her because she's had two divorces, yet all the husbands seem to enjoy her company. Mrs. Trenor knows that Carry borrows money from her husband Gus Trenor all the time, but she doesn't say anything because Carry is one of few people who can keep Gus in good spirits. She'd pay her anyway just to keep him company. Mrs. Trenor dishes more about the various people who are invited to her party, and those who are not. She mentions Lady Cressida Raith, a British woman whose sister is the Duchess of Beltshire. Essentially, there's a territorial social war between Mrs. Trenor and Maria Van Osburgh over who gets to "have right people" by her side and attend her parties. Lily reassures her by stroking her social ego. Then, Mrs. Trenor reveals that Mrs. Dorset is angry with her, because she told Bertha that Selden would be attending and now he isn't going to come after all. Lily says she heard it was "all over" between Bertha and Selden, which implies that they had an affair in the past. It is over, says Mrs. Trenor, but only according to Selden. Bertha isn't over him yet. The women wonder who will entertain Mrs. Dorset if Selden isn't around. She can't have Lucius because Alice Wetherall has dibs, and, of course, Ned Silverton is all over Carry Fisher. Mrs. Trenor's own husband Gus doesn't even like Bertha, and Jack Stepney isn't going to do the trick either. Mrs. Trenor admits that Bertha is a dangerous, manipulative woman who takes pleasure in making other people miserable, particularly her husband George. Conversation finally moves around to Percy Gryce, and Lily admits that she's busy ensnaring him herself. Judy Trenor reveals that he makes about $800,000 a year . She encourages Lily to "go slow," to not be too forward in her pursuit, and to basically act like a goody two-shoes . Before she leaves, Lily asks Judy explicitly not to convince Selden to drop by. The next few days go splendidly for Lily, who spends as much time congratulating herself on her abilities as she does charming Mr. Gryce. One lovely September afternoon, Lily observes Gryce and Carry Fisher chatting it up. Mrs. Fisher is "small, fiery, and dramatic," and, at the moment, consumed with a zeal for municipal reform, whatever that is . It's obvious that Percy doesn't care either , and Lily is amused at his predicament. Lily purposefully doesn't save him so that he'll spend more time longing for her. Then, another couple catches her eye: her cousin Jack Stepney and Miss Gwen Van Osburgh. She resents that Jack gets to sit back while Gwen pursues him until he decides he's ready for marriage. Once again, men have it all, and Lily resents her gender. Lily decides that she and Jack are similar, and that Gwen and Percy are similar. This sort of makes the two couples a foil for each other, in her mind. She and Jack have "all sorts of intuitions, sensations, and perceptions" that Percy and Gwen "don't even guess the existence of." She stays on the terrace and refuses to join the crowd at the tea table below, since they represent her boring future fate of being someone's wife. Life still sucks. Lily comforts herself with the thought of all the money she'll soon have when she marries Percy. She decides she wants to replace his Americana as "the one possession" in which he takes pride in and spends his money on. Lily hears someone approaching and assumes it is Percy, having escaped Mrs. Fisher at last. Nope - it's Lawrence Selden. Before he can greet Lily, Mrs. Dorset steps in and takes ownership of her former lover.

