The Group: A Novel

Book : The Collected Novels Volume One

by Mary McCarthy

Genres: Coming of Age; Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

This smash bestseller about privileged Vassar classmates shocked America in the sixties and remains “juicy . . . witty . . . brilliant” (Cosmopolitan).
 At Vassar, they were known as “the group”—eight young women of privilege, the closest of friends, an eclectic mix of vibrant personalities. A week after graduation in 1933, they all gather for the wedding of Kay Strong, one of their own, before going their separate ways in the world. In the years that follow, they will each know accomplishment and loss in equal measure, pursuing careers and marriage, experiencing the joys and traumas of sexual awakening and motherhood, all while suffering through betrayals, infidelities, and sometimes madness. Some of them will drift apart. Some will play important roles in the personal dramas of others. But it is tragedy that will ultimately unite the group once again.
A novel that stunned the world when it was first published in 1963, Mary McCarthy’s The Group found acclaim, controversy, and a place atop the New York Times bestseller list for nearly two years for its frank and controversial exploration of women’s issues, social concerns, and sexuality. A blistering satire of the mores of an emergent generation of women, The Group is McCarthy’s enduring masterpiece, still as relevant, powerful, and wonderfully entertaining fifty years on.
This ebook features an illustrated biography of Mary McCarthy including rare images from the author’s estate. 

 

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Release date: August 6, 2013

Publisher: Open Road Media

Print pages: 494

Sample

ONE

IT WAS JUNE, 1933, one week after Commencement, when Kay Leiland Strong, Vassar ’33, the first of her class to run around the table at the Class Day dinner, was married to Harald Petersen, Reed ’27, in the chapel of St. George’s Church, P.E., Karl F. Reiland, Rector. Outside, on Stuyvesant Square, the trees were in full leaf, and the wedding guests arriving by twos and threes in taxis heard the voices of children playing round the statue of Peter Stuyvesant in the park. Paying the driver, smoothing out their gloves, the pairs and trios of young women, Kay’s classmates, stared about them curiously, as though they were in a foreign city. They were in the throes of discovering New York, imagine it, when some of them had actually lived here all their lives, in tiresome Georgian houses full of waste space in the Eighties or Park Avenue apartment buildings, and they delighted in such out-of-the-way corners as this, with its greenery and Quaker meeting-house in red brick, polished brass, and white trim next to the wine-purple Episcopal church—on Sundays, they walked with their beaux across Brooklyn Bridge and poked into the sleepy Heights section of Brooklyn; they explored residential Murray Hill and quaint MacDougal Alley and Patchin Place and Washington Mews with all the artists’ studios; they loved the Plaza Hotel and the fountain there and the green mansarding of the Savoy Plaza and the row of horsedrawn hacks and elderly coachmen, waiting, as in a French place, to tempt them to a twilight ride through Central Park.

The sense of an adventure was strong on them this morning, as they seated themselves softly in the still, near-empty chapel; they had never been to a wedding quite like this one before, to which invitations had been issued orally by the bride herself, without the intervention of a relation or any older person, friend of the family. There was to be no honeymoon, they had heard, because Harald (that was the way he spelled it—the old Scandinavian way) was working as an assistant stage manager for a theatrical production and had to be at the theatre as usual this evening to call “half hour” for the actors. This seemed to them very exciting and of course it justified the oddities of the wedding: Kay and Harald were too busy and dynamic to let convention cramp their style. In September, Kay was going to start at Macy’s, to be trained, along with other picked college graduates, in merchandising techniques, but instead of sitting around all summer, waiting for the job to begin, she had already registered for a typing course in business school, which Harald said would give her a tool that the other trainees wouldn’t have. And, according to Helena Davison, Kay’s roommate junior year, the two of them had moved right into a summer sublet, in a nice block in the East Fifties, without a single piece of linen or silver of their own, and had spent the last week, ever since graduation (Helena had just been there and seen it), on the regular tenant’s sublet sheets!

How like Kay, they concluded fondly, as the tale passed along the pews. She had been amazingly altered, they felt, by a course in Animal Behavior she had taken with old Miss Washburn (who had left her brain in her will to Science) during their junior year. This and her work with Hallie Flanagan in Dramatic Production had changed her from a shy, pretty, somewhat heavy Western girl with black lustrous curly hair and a wild-rose complexion, active in hockey, in the choir, given to large tight brassières and copious menstruations, into a thing,

hard-driving, authoritative young woman, dressed in dungarees, sweat shirt, and sneakers, with smears of paint in her unwashed hair, tobacco stains on her fingers, talking airily of “Hallie” and “Lester,” Hallie’s assistant, of flats and stippling, of oestrum and nymphomania, calling her friends by their last names loudly—“Eastlake,” “Renfrew,” “MacAusland”—counseling premarital experiment and the scientific choice of a mate. Love, she said, was an illusion.

To her fellow group members, all seven of whom were now present in the chapel, this development in Kay, which they gently labeled a “phase,” had been, nevertheless, disquieting. Her bark was worse than her bite, they used to reiterate to each other, late at night in their common sitting room in the South Tower of Main Hall, when Kay was still out, painting flats or working on the electricity with Lester in the theatre. But they were afraid that some man, who did not know the old dear as they did, would take her at her word. They had pondered about Harald; Kay had met him last summer when she was working as an apprentice at a summer theatre in Stamford and both sexes had lived in a dormitory together. She said he wanted to marry her, but that was not the way his letters sounded to the group. They were not love letters at all, so far as the group could see, but accounts of personal successes among theatrical celebrities, what Edna Ferber had said to George Kaufman in his hearing, how Gilbert Miller had sent for him and a woman star had begged him to read his play to her in bed. “Consider yourself kissed,” they ended, curtly, or just “C.Y.K.”—not another word. In a young man of their own background, as the girls vaguely phrased it, such letters would have been offensive, but their education had impressed on them the unwisdom of making large judgments from one’s own narrow little segment of experience. Still, they could tell that Kay was not as sure of him as she pretended she was; sometimes he did not write for weeks, while poor Kay went on whistling in the dark. Polly Andrews, who shared a mailbox with her, knew this for a fact. Up to the Class Day dinner, ten days ago, the girls had had the feeling that Kay’s touted “engagement” was pretty much of a myth. They had almost thought of turning to some wiser person for guidance, a member of the faculty or the college psychiatrist—somebody Kay could talk it out to, frankly. Then, that night, when Kay had run

around the long table, which meant you were announcing your engagement to the whole class, and produced from her winded bosom a funny Mexican silver ring to prove it, their alarm had dissolved into a docile amusement; they clapped, dimpling and twinkling, with an air of prior knowledge. More gravely, in low posh tones, they assured their parents, up for the Commencement ceremonies, that the engagement was of long standing, that Harald was “terribly nice” and “terribly in love” with Kay. Now, in the chapel, they rearranged their fur pieces and smiled at each other, noddingly, like mature little martens and sables: they had been right, the hardness was only a phase; it was certainly a point for their side that the iconoclast and scoffer was the first of the little band to get married.

“Who would have thunk it?” irrepressibly remarked “Pokey” (Mary) Prothero, a fat cheerful New York society girl with big red cheeks and yellow hair, who talked like a jolly beau of the McKinley period, in imitation of her yachtsman father. She was the problem child of the group, very rich and lazy, having to be coached in her subjects, cribbing in examinations, sneaking weekends, stealing library books, without morals or subtleties, interested only in animals and hunt dances; her ambition, recorded in the yearbook, was to become a vet; she had come to Kay’s wedding good-naturedly because her friends had dragged her there, as they had dragged her to college assemblies, throwing stones up at her window to rouse her and then thrusting her into her cap and rumpled gown. Having now got her safely to the church, later in the day they would propel her into Tiffany’s, to make sure that Kay got one good, thumping wedding present, a thing Pokey, by herself, would not understand the necessity of, since to her mind wedding presents were a part of the burden of privilege, associated with detectives, bridesmaids, fleets of limousines, reception at Sherry’s or the Colony Club. If one was not in society, what was the point of the folderol? She herself, she proclaimed, hated being fitted for dresses, hated her coming-out party

, would hate her wedding, when she had it, which, as she said, was bound to happen since, thanks to Daddy’s money, she had her pick of beaux. All these objections she had raised in the taxicab on the way down, in her grating society caw, till the taxi driver turned round at a stop light to look at her, fat and fair, in a blue faille suit with sables and a lorgnon of diamonds, which she raised to her weak sapphire eyes to peer at him and at his picture, concluding, in a loud firm whisper, to her roommates, “It’s not the same man.”

“What perfect pets they look!” murmured Dottie Renfrew, of Boston, to quiet her, as Harald and Kay came in from the vestry and took their places before the surpliced curate, accompanied by little Helena Davison, Kay’s ex-roommate from Cleveland, and by a sallow blond young man with a mustache. Pokey made use of her lorgnon, squinting up her pale-lashed eyes like an old woman; this was her first appraisal of Harald, for she had been away hunting for the weekend the one time he had come to college. “Not too bad,” she pronounced. “Except for the shoes.” The groom was a thin, tense young man with black straight hair and a very good, supple figure, like a fencer’s; he was wearing a blue suit, white shirt, brown suede shoes, and dark-red tie. Her scrutiny veered to Kay, who was wearing a pale-brown thin silk dress with a big white mousseline de soie collar and a wide black taffeta hat wreathed with white daisies; around one tan wrist was a gold bracelet that had belonged to her grandmother; she carried a bouquet of field daisies mixed with lilies of the valley. With her glowing cheeks, vivid black curly hair, and tawny hazel eyes, she looked like a country lass on some old tinted post card; the seams of her stockings were crooked, and the backs of her black suede shoes had worn spots, where she had rubbed them against each other. Pokey scowled. “Doesn’t she know,” she lamented, “that black’s bad luck for weddings?” “Shut up,” came a furious growl from her other side. Pokey, hurt, peered around, to find Elinor Eastlake, of Lake Forest, the taciturn brunette beauty of the group, staring at her with murder in her long, green eyes. “But Lakey!” Pokey cried, protesting. The Chicago girl, intellectual, impeccable, disdainful, and nearly as rich as herself, was the only one of the group she stood in awe of. Behind her blinking good nature, Pokey was a logical snob. She assumed that it was taken for granted that of the other seven roommates, only Lakey could expect to be in her wedding, and

 vice versa, of course; the others would come to the reception. “Fool,” spat out the Madonna from Lake Forest, between gritted pearly teeth. Pokey rolled her eyes. “Temperamental,” she observed to Dottie Renfrew. Both girls stole amused glances at Elinor’s haughty profile; the fine white Renaissance nostril was dinted with a mark of pain. To Elinor, this wedding was torture. Everything was so jaggedly ill-at-ease: Kay’s costume, Harald’s shoes and necktie, the bare altar, the sparsity of guests on the groom’s side (a couple and a solitary man), the absence of any family connection. Intelligent and morbidly sensitive, she was inwardly screaming with pity for the principals and vicarious mortification. Hypocrisy was the sole explanation she could find for the antiphonal bird twitter of “Terribly nice,” and “Isn’t this exciting?” that had risen to greet the couple in lieu of a wedding march. Elinor was always firmly convinced of other people’s hypocrisy since she could not believe that they noticed less than she did. She supposed now that the girls all around her must see what she saw, must suffer for Kay and Harald a supreme humiliation.

Facing the congregation, the curate coughed. “Step forward!” he sharply admonished the young couple, sounding, as Lakey observed afterward, more like a bus conductor than a minister. The back of the groom’s neck reddened; he had just had a haircut. All at once, the fact that Kay was a self-announced scientific atheist came home to her friends in the chapel; the same thought crossed every mind: what had happened in the interview in the rectory? Was Harald a communicant? It seemed very unlikely. How had they worked it, then, to get married in a rock-ribbed Episcopal church? Dottie Renfrew, a devout Episcopal communicant, drew her clasped furs closer around her susceptible throat; she shivered. It occurred to her that she might be compounding a sacrilege: to her certain knowledge, Kay, the proud daughter of an agnostic doctor and a Mormon mother, had not even been baptized. Kay, as the group knew too, was not a very truthful person; could she have lied to the minister? In that case, was the marriage invalid? A flush stole up from Dottie’s collarbone, reddening the patch of skin at the V opening of her handmade crepe de Chine blouse; her perturbed brown eyes canvassed her friends; her eczematous complexion spotted. She knew by heart what was coming. “If any man can show just cause, why they may not be lawfully joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.” The curate’s voice halted, on a questioning note; he glanced up and down the pews. Dottie shut her eyes

nd prayed, conscious of a dead hush in the chapel. Would God or Dr. Leverett, her clergyman, really want her to speak up? She prayed that they would not. The opportunity passed, as she heard the curate’s voice resume, loud and solemn, as if almost in reprobation of the couple, to which he now turned. “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that if any persons are joined together otherwise than as God’s Word doth allow, their marriage is not lawful.”

You could have heard a pin drop, as the girls agreed later. Every girl was holding her breath. Dottie’s religious scruples had given way to a new anxiety, which was common to the whole group. The knowledge, shared by them all, of Kay’s having “lived with” Harald filled them with a sudden sense of the unsanctioned. They glanced stealthily around the chapel and noted for the nth time the absence of parents or any older person; and this departure from convention, which had been “such fun” before the service began, struck them now as queer and ominous. Even Elinor Eastlake, who knew scornfully well that fornication was not the type of impediment alluded to in the service, half expected an unknown presence to rise and stop the ceremony. To her mind, there was a spiritual obstacle to the marriage; she considered Kay a cruel, ruthless, stupid person who was marrying Harald from ambition.

Everyone in the chapel had now noticed something a little odd, or so it seemed, in the curate’s pauses and stresses; they had never heard “their marriage is not lawful” delivered with such emphasis. On the groom’s side, a handsome, auburn-haired, dissipated-looking young man clenched his fist suddenly and muttered something under his breath. He smelled terribly of alcohol and appeared extremely nervous; all through the ceremony, he had been clasping and unclasping his well-shaped, strong-looking hands and biting his chiseled lips. “He’s a painter; he’s just been divorced,” whispered fair-haired Polly Andrews, who was the quiet type but who knew everything, on Elinor Eastlake’s right. Elinor, like a young queen, leaned forward and deliberately caught his eye; here was someone, she felt, who was as disgusted and uncomfortable as she was. He responded with a stare of

 bitter, encompassing irony, followed by a wink directed, unmistakably, at the altar. Having moved into the main part of the service, the curate had now picked up speed, as though he had suddenly discovered another appointment and were running off this couple as rapidly as possible: this was only a $10 wedding, his manner seemed to imply. Behind her large hat, Kay appeared to be oblivious of all slights, but Harald’s ears and neck had turned a darker red, and, in his responses, he began, with a certain theatrical flourish, to slow down and correct the minister’s intonations.

This made the couple on the groom’s side smile, as if at a familiar weakness or fault, but the girls, in their pews, were scandalized by the curate’s rudeness and applauded what they called Harald’s victory over him, which they firmly intended to make the center of their congratulations after the ceremony. There were some who, then and there, resolved to speak to Mother and get her to speak to Dr. Reiland, the rector, about it; a capacity for outrage, their social birthright, had been redirected, as it were, by education. The fact that Kay and Harald were going to be poor as church mice was no excuse, they thought staunchly, for such conduct on the part of a priest, in these times especially, when everybody was having to retrench. Even among their own number, one girl had had to accept a scholarship to finish college, and nobody thought the worse of her for it: Polly Andrews remained one of their very dearest friends. They were a different breed, they could assure the curate, from the languid buds of the previous decade: there was not one of them who did not propose to work this coming fall, at a volunteer job if need be. Libby MacAusland had a promise from a publisher; Helena Davison, whose parents, out in Cincinnati, no, Cleveland, lived on the income of their income, was going into teaching—she already had a job sewed up at a private nursery school; Polly Andrews, more power to her, was to work as a technician in the new Medical Center; Dottie Renfrew

was slated for social work in a Boston settlement house; Lakey was off to Paris to study art history, working toward an advanced degree; Pokey Prothero, who had been given a plane for graduation, was getting her pilot’s license so as to be able to commute three days a week to Cornell Agricultural School, and last but not least, yesterday little Priss Hartshorn, the group grind, had simultaneously announced her engagement to a young doctor and landed a job with the N.R.A. Not bad, they conceded, for a group that had gone through college with the stigma of being high-hat. And elsewhere in the class, in the wider circle of Kay’s friends, they could point out girls of perfectly good background who were going into business, anthropology, medicine, not because they had to, but because they knew they had something to contribute to our emergent America. The group was not afraid of being radical either; they could see the good Roosevelt was doing, despite what Mother and Dad said; they were not taken in by party labels and thought the Democrats should be given a chance to show what they had up their sleeve. Experience was just a question of learning through trial and error; the most conservative of them, pushed to the wall, admitted that an honest socialist was entitled to a hearing.

The worst fate, they utterly agreed, would be to become like Mother and Dad, stuffy and frightened. Not one of them, if she could help it, was going to marry a broker or a banker or a coldfish corporation lawyer, like so many of Mother’s generation. They would rather be wildly poor and live on salmon wiggle than be forced to marry one of those dull purplish young men of their own set, with a seat on the Exchange and bloodshot eyes, interested only in squash and cockfighting and drinking at the Racquet Club with his cronies, Yale or Princeton ’29. It would be better, yes, they were not afraid to say it, though Mother gently laughed, to marry a Jew if you loved him—some of them were awfully interesting and cultivated, though terribly ambitious and inclined to stick together, as you saw very well at Vassar: if you knew them you had to know their friends. There was one thing, though, truthfully, that made the group feel a little anxious for Kay. It was a pity in a way that a person as gifted as Harald and with a good education had had to pick the stage, rather than medicine or architecture or museum work, where the going was not so rough. To hear Kay talk, the theatre was pretty red in tooth and claw, though of course there were some nice people in it, like Katharine Cornell and Walter Hampden (he had a niece in the Class of ’32) and John Mason Brown, the thingummy, who talked to Mother’s club every year. Harald had done graduate work at the Yale Drama School, under Professor Baker, but then the depression  had started, and he had had to come to New York to be a stage manager instead of just writing plays. That was like starting from the bottom in a factory, of course, which lots of nice boys were doing, and there was probably no difference between backstage in a theatre, where a lot of men in their undershirts sat in front of a mirror putting on make-up, and a blast furnace or a coal mine, where the men were in their undershirts too. Helena Davison said that when Harald’s show came to Cleveland this spring, he spent all his time playing poker with the stagehands and the electricians, who were the nicest people in the show, and Helena’s father said he agreed with him, especially after seeing the play—Mr. Davison was a bit of a card and more democratic than most fathers, being from the West and more or less self-made. Still, nobody could afford to be standoffish nowadays. Connie Storey’s fiancé, who was going into journalism, was working as an office boy at Fortune, and her family, instead of having conniptions, was taking it very calmly and sending her to cooking school. And lots of graduate architects, instead of joining a firm and building rich men’s houses, had gone right into the factories to study industrial design. Look at Russel Wright, whom everybody thought quite the thing now; he was using industrial materials, like the wonderful new spun aluminum, to make all sorts of useful objects like cheese trays and water carafes. Kay’s first wedding present, which she had picked out herself, was a Russel Wright cocktail shaker in the shape of a skyscraper and made out of oak ply and aluminum with a tray and twelve little round cups to match—light as a feather and non-tarnishable, of course. The main point was, Harald was a natural gentleman—though inclined to show off in his letters, which was probably to impress Kay, who was inclined to drop names herself and talk about people’s butlers and Fly and A.D. and Porcellian and introduce poor Harald as a Yale man when he had only gone to graduate school at New Haven. …That was a side of Kay that the group did its best to deprecate and that drove Lakey wild. A lack of fastidiousness and consideration for the other person; she did not seem to realize the little social nuances. She was always coming into people’s rooms, for instance, and making herself at home and fiddling with things on their bureaus and telling them about their inhibitions if they objected; it was she who insisted on playing Truth and on getting had

everybody in the group to make lists of their friends in the order of preference and then compare the lists. What she did not stop to think about was that somebody had to be on the bottom of every list, and when that somebody cried and refused to be consoled, Kay was always honestly surprised; she would not mind, she said, hearing the truth about herself. Actually, she never did hear it because the others were too tactful ever to put her at the bottom, even if they wanted to, because Kay was a little bit of an outsider and nobody wanted her to feel that. So instead they would put Libby MacAusland or Polly Andrews—someone they had known all their lives or gone to school with or something. Kay did get a bit of a shock, though, to find that she was not at the top of Lakey’s list. She was crazy about Lakey, whom she always described as her best friend. Kay did not know it, but the group had had a pitched battle with Lakey over Easter vacation, when they had drawn straws to see who was to invite Kay home for the holidays and Lakey had got the shortest straw and then refused to play. The group had simply borne down on Lakey in a body and accused her of being a poor sport, which was true. After all, as they had swiftly pointed out to her, it was she who had invited Kay to group with them in the first place; when they saw that they could get the South Tower for themselves if they had eight in the group instead of six, it was Lakey’s idea that they should invite Kay and Helena Davison to join forces with them and take the two small single rooms.

If you were going to use a person, then you had to make the best of them. And it was not “using,” anyway; they all liked Kay and Helena, including Lakey herself, who had discovered Kay as a sophomore, when they were both on the Daisy Chain. She had taken Kay up for all she was worth, because Kay, as she said, was “malleable” and “capable of learning.” Now she claimed to have detected that Kay had feet of clay, which was rather a contradiction, since wasn’t clay malleable? But Lakey was very contradictory; that was her charm. Sometimes she was a frightful snob and sometimes just the opposite. She was looking so furious this morning, for instance, because Kay, according to her, should have got married quietly in City Hall instead of making Harald, who was not to the manor born, try to carry off a wedding in J. P. Morgan’s church. Now was this snobbish of Lakey or wasn’t it? Naturally, she had not said any of this to Kay;

she had expected Kay to feel it for herself, which was just what Kay couldn’t do and remain the blunt, natural, unconscious Kay they all loved, in spite of her faults. Lakey had the weirdest ideas about people. She had got the bee in her bonnet, last fall, that Kay had worked her way into the group out of a desire for social prestige; this was not at all the way it had happened, and it was a peculiar thing, really, to think about a girl who was so unconventional that she had not even bothered to have her own parents to her wedding, though her father was very prominent in Salt Lake City affairs.

It was true, Kay had rather angled to get Pokey Prothero’s town house for the reception, but she had taken it with good grace when Pokey had loudly lamented that the house was in dust covers for the summer, with only a caretaking couple to look after Father on the nights he spent in town. Poor Kay—some of the girls thought that Pokey might have been a little more generous and offered her a card to the Colony. In fact, on this score, nearly all the group felt a little bit conscience-stricken. Each one of them, as the others knew, had a house or a big apartment or a club membership, if it was only the Cosmopolitan, or a cousin’s digs or a brother’s that might possibly have been put at Kay’s disposal. But that would have meant punch, champagne, a cake from Sherry’s or Henri’s, extra help—before one knew it one would have found oneself giving the wedding and supplying a father or a brother to take Kay down the aisle. In these times, in sheer self-protection, one had to think twice, as Mother said, fatigued; there were so many demands. Fortunately, Kay had decided that she and Harald should give the wedding breakfast themselves, at the old Hotel Brevoort down on Eighth Street: so much nicer, so much more appropriate.

Dottie Renfrew and Elinor Eastlake made their way out of the chapel together, onto the sunny pavement. The service had seemed awfully short. There had been no blessing of the ring and “Who giveth this Woman” had had to be left out, obviously. Dottie frowned and cleared her throat. “Wouldn’t you have thought,” she dared to suggest, in her deep military rumble, “that she would have had someone? Isn’t there a cousin in Montclair?” Elinor Eastlake shrugged. “The plan miscarried,” she said. Libby MacAusland, an English major from Pittsfield, thrust her head into the tête-á-tête. “What’s this, what’s this" she said jovially. “Break it up, girls.” She was a tall, pretty blonde with perpetually dilating brown eyes, a long, arching, inquisitive neck, and a manner of anxious conviviality; she had been president of the class sophomore year and had just missed being elected president of Students. Dottie laid a cautionary hand on Lakey’s silken elbow; Libby, as everyone knew, was an unrestrained gossip and gabbler. Lakey lightly shook off Dottie’s fingers; she detested being touched. “Dottie was asking,” she said distinctly, “whether there wasn’t a cousin in Montclair.” There was a faint smile in the depths of her green eyes, which had a queer dark-blue rim around the iris, a sign of her Indian blood; she was searching the distance for a taxi. Libby became exaggeratedly thoughtful. She laid a finger to the center of her forehead. “I believe there is,” she discovered, nodding three times. “Do you really think—?” she began eagerly. Lakey raised a hand for a taxi. “Kay kept the cousin in the background, hoping that one of us would supply her with something better.” “Lakey!” murmured Dottie, shaking her head in reproach. “Really, Lakey,” said Libby, giggling. “Nobody but you would ever think of such a thing.” She hesitated. “If Kay wanted somebody to give her away, she had only to ask, after all. Father or Brother would have been glad, any of us would have been glad. …” Her voice broke off, and she precipitated her thin form into the taxi, where she took the jump seat, turning around, in half a minute, to survey her friends with cupped chin and brooding eyes: all her movements were quick and restive—she had an image of herself as a high-bred, tempestuous creature, a sort of Arab steed in an English sporting primitive. “Do you really think?” she repeated, covetously, biting her upper lip. But Lakey said no more; she never enlarged on a suggestion, and for this had been named the Mona Lisa of the Smoking Room. Dottie Renfrew was distressed; her gloved hand twisted the pearls that had been given her for her twenty-first birthday. Her conscience was troubling her, and she resorted, from habit, to the slow, soft cough, like a perpetual scruple, that caused her family such anxiety and made them send her to Florida twice a

year, at Christmas and Easter. “Lakey,” she said gravely, ignoring Libby, “one of us, don’t you think, should have done it for her?” Libby MacAusland caracoled about on the jump seat, a hungry look in her eyes. Both girls stared into Elinor’s impassive oval face. Elinor’s eyes narrowed; she fingered the coil of Indian-black hair at the nape of her neck and readjusted a hairpin. “No,” she said, with contempt. “It would have been a confession of weakness.”

Libby’s eyes protruded. “How hard you are,” she said admiringly. “And yet Kay adores you,” pondered Dottie. “You used to like her best, Lakey. I think you still do, in your heart of hearts.” Lakey smiled at the cliché. “Perhaps,” she said and lit a cigarette. She was fond, at present, of girls like Dottie who ran true to type, like paintings well within a style or a tradition. The girls she chose to collect were mystified, usually, by what she saw in them; they humbly perceived that they were very different from her. In private, they often discussed her, like toys discussing their owner, and concluded that she was awfully inhuman. But this increased their respect for her. She was also very changeable, which made them suspect great depths. Now, as the cab turned toward Fifth Avenue on Ninth Street, she made one of her abrupt decisions. “Let me out here,” she commanded in her small, distinct, sweet voice. The driver instantly stopped and turned to watch her step out of the cab, rather stately, despite her fragility, in a high-necked black taffeta suit with a white silk muffler, small black hat, like a bowler, and black very high-heeled shoes. “Go ahead,” she called back impatiently, as the cab lingered.

The two girls in the taxi interrogated each other. Libby MacAusland craned her gold head in a flowered hat out the window. “Aren’t you coming?” she cried. There was no answer. They could see her straight little back proceeding south, in the sun, on University Place. “Follow her!” said Libby to the driver. “I’ll have to go round the block, lady.” The cab turned into Fifth Avenue and passed the Brevoort Hotel, where the rest of the wedding party was arriving; it went on into Eighth Street and back up University Place. But there was no sign of Lakey anywhere. She had disappeared. “Wouldn’t that jar you?” said Libby. “Was it something I said, do you think?” “Go round the block again, driver,” interposed Dottie quietly. In front of the Brevoort, Kay and Harald were climbing out of a taxi; they did not see the two frightened girls. “Did she just up and decide not to go to the reception?” continued Libby, as the cab made the second circuit, without any result. “She seemed terribly off Kay, I must say.” The

cab paused before the hotel. “What are we going to do?” demanded Libby. Dottie opened her pocketbook and gave a bill to the driver. “Lakey is her own law,” she said firmly to Libby as they dismounted. “We must simply tell everyone that she felt faint in the church.” A disappointed expression came into Libby’s sharp-boned, pretty face; she had been looking forward to the scandal.

In a private dining room of the hotel, Kay and Harald stood on a faded flowered carpet, receiving their friends’ congratulations. A punch was being served, over which the guests were exclaiming: “What is it?” “Perfectly delicious,” “How did you ever think of it?” and so on. To each one, Kay gave the recipe. The base was one-third Jersey applejack, one-third maple syrup, and one-third lemon juice, to which White Rock had been added. Harald had got the applejack from an actor friend who got it from a farmer near Flemington; the punch was adapted from a cocktail called Applejack Rabbit. The recipe was an icebreaker—just as Kay had hoped, she explained aside to Helena Davison: everyone tasted it and agreed that it was the maple syrup that made all the difference. A tall shaggy man who was in radio told several funny stories about Jersey Lightning; he warned the handsome young man in the knitted green necktie that this stuff packed an awful wallop. There was a discussion about applejack and how it made people quarrelsome, to which the girls listened with fascination; none of them had ever tasted applejack before. They were very much interested, just at this time, in receipts for drinks; they all adored brandy Alexanders and White Ladies and wanted to hear about a cocktail called the Clover Club that was one-third gin, one-third lemon juice, one-third grenadine, and the white of an egg. Harald told about a drugstore he and Kay knew on West Fifty-ninth Street, where you could get prescription whisky without a prescription, and Polly Andrews borrowed a pencil from the waiter and noted down the address: she was going to be on her own this summer, keeping house for herself in her Aunt Julia’s apartment with a terrace, and she needed all the tips she could get. Then Harald told them about a liqueur called anisette that an Italian in the theatre orchestra had taught him to make, from straight alcohol, water, and oil of anis, which gave it a milky color, like Pernod. He explained the difference between Pernod, absinthe, arrack, and anisette; the girls spoke of green and yellow chartreuse, green and white crème de menthe, which Harald said varied only in the color that was added, artificially, to suit a fancy market. Then he told them about an Armenian restaurant in the twenties, where you got rose-petal jelly for dessert, and explained the difference between Turkish and Armenian and Syrian cooking. “Where did you get this man?” the girls cried, in unison. In the pause that followed, the young man in the knitted tie drank a glass of punch and came over to Dottie Renfrew. “Where’s the dark beauty?” he asked in a confidential voice. Dottie lowered her voice also and glanced uneasily toward the far corner of the dining room, where Libby MacAusland was whispering to two of the group. “She felt faint in the chapel,” she murmured. “I’ve just explained to Kay and Harald. We’ve packed her off to her hotel to lie down.” The young man raised an eyebrow. “How perfectly frightful,” he said. Kay turned her head quickly to listen; the mockery in the young man’s voice was evident. Dottie flushed. She cast about bravely for a new subject. “Are you in the theatre too?” The young man leaned back against the wall, tilting his head upward. “No,” he said, “though your question is natural. In point of fact, I’m in welfare work.” Dottie eyed him gravely; she remembered now that Polly had said he was a painter, and she saw she was being teased. He looked very much the artist—handsome as a piece of Roman statuary but somewhat battered and worn; the muscles of the cheeks were loosening, and there were somber creases on either side of the flawless, straight, strong nose. She waited. “I do posters for the Women’s International League for Peace,” he said. Dottie laughed. “That’s not welfare work,” she retorted. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. He glanced down at her, carefully. “Vincent Club, Junior League, work with unwed mothers,” he enumerated. “My name is Brown. I come from Marblehead. I’m a collateral descendant of Nathaniel Hawthorne. My father keeps a general store. I didn’t go to college. I’m not in your class, young lady.” Dottie remained silent, merely watching him sympathetically; she now thought him very attractive. “I am an ex-expatriate,” he continued. “Since the fall of the dollar I occupy a furnished room on Perry Street, next to the bridegroom’s, and do peace posters for the ladies, as well as a little commercial work. The john, as you girls call it, is down the hall, and in the closet there's

 an electric grill. Hence you must excuse me if I smell like a ham-and-egg sandwich.” Dottie’s beaver-brown eyes twinkled reproachfully; from the theatrical way he spoke she could see that he was proud and bitter, and she knew he was a gentleman from his well-cut features and his good, if old, tweed suit. “Harald is moving on to higher things,” said Mr. Brown. “An apartment on the fashionable East Side—above a cordial shop and a cut-rate cleaner’s, I’m told. We met like two passing elevators, to modernize the figure, one on the way up, one on the way down. Yesterday,” he went on, frowning, “I was divorced downtown in Foley Square by a beautiful young creature named Betty from Morristown, New Jersey.” He leaned forward slightly. “We spent last night in my room to celebrate. Are any of you people named Betty?” Dottie reflected. “There’s Libby,” she said. “No Libbys, Beths, or Betsys,” he cautioned. “I don’t like the names you girls have nowadays. But what of the dark beauty? How is she called?”

At this moment, the door opened and Elinor Eastlake was shown in by a waiter, to whom she handed two brown-paper parcels she was carrying in her black kid-gloved hand; she appeared perfectly composed. “Her name is Elinor,” whispered Dottie. “We call her Lakey because her last name is Eastlake and she comes from Lake Forest, outside of Chicago.” “Thank you,” said Mr. Brown, but he made no move to leave Dottie’s side and continued to talk to her in an undertone, out of the corner of his mouth, offering wry comments on the wedding party. Harald had hold of Lakey’s hand, which he swung back and forth, as he stood back to admire her suit, a Patou model. His quick, lithe movements went oddly with his solemn long head and face, almost as if his head, a thinking machine, did not belong to him and had been clapped on his body in a masquerade. He was an intensely self-absorbed young man, as the girls knew from his letters, and when he spoke of his career, as he was doing now to Lakey, he had a detached impersonal eagerness, as though he were discussing disarmament or deficit spending. Yet he was attractive to women, as the girls knew from his letters too; the group admitted that he had S.A., the way some homely men teachers and clergymen had, and there was something about him, a dynamic verve, that made Dottie wonder, even now, as she and her companion watched him, how Kay had brought him to the point. The idea that Kay might

be enceinte had stolen more than once into her quiet thoughts, though Kay, according to herself, knew all about taking precautions and kept a douche in Harald’s closet.

“Have you known Kay long?” asked Dottie curiously, remembering in spite of herself the toilet he had mentioned in the hall of Harald’s rooming house. “Long enough,” replied Mr. Brown. This was so cruelly outright that Dottie flinched, just as though it had been said of her, at her own wedding reception. “I don’t like girls with big legs,” he said, with a reassuring smile—Dottie’s legs and slim, well-shod feet were her best points. Disloyally, Dottie looked with him at Kay’s legs, which were indeed rather beefy. “A sign of peasant forbears,” he said, waving a finger. “The center of gravity’s too low—a mark of obstinacy and obtuseness.” He studied Kay’s figure, which was outlined by the thin dress; as usual, she was not wearing a girdle. “A touch of steatopygy.” “What?” whispered Dottie. “Excessive development of the rump. Let me get you a drink.” Dottie was thrilled and horrified; she had never had such a risqué conversation. “You and your social friends,” he continued, “have a finer functional adaption. Full, low-slung breasts”—he stared about the room—“fashioned to carry pearls and bouclé sweaters and faggoting and tucked crepe de Chine blouses. Narrow waists. Tapering legs. As a man of the last decade, I prefer the boyish figure myself: a girl in a bathing cap poised to jackknife on a diving board. Marblehead summer memories; Betty is a marvelous swimmer. Thin women are more sensual; scientific fact—the nerve ends are closer to the surface.” His grey eyes narrowed, heavy-lidded, as though he were drifting off to sleep. “I like the fat one, though,” he said abruptly, singling out Pokey Prothero. “She has a thermal look. Nacreous skin, plumped with oysters. Yum, yum, yum; money, money, money. My sexual problems are economic. I loathe under-privileged women, but my own outlook is bohemian. Impossible combination.”

To Dottie’s relief, the waiters came in with the breakfast—eggs Benedict—and Kay shooed everyone to the table. She put the best man, a very silent person who worked on the Wall Street Journal (advertising department), on her own right, and Helena Davison on Harald’s right, but after that all was confusion. Dottie was left stranded at the end of the table between Libby, her bête noire, and the radio man’s wife,who was a stylist at Russeks (and who, of course, should have been seated on Harald’s left). It was a hard table to seat, with so many girls; still, a more tactful hostess could have arranged it so that the duller ones were not all put together. But the radio man’s wife, a vivacious beanpole of a woman, dressed in plumes and jet accessories like a film vamp, seemed perfectly content with her company; she was a graduate of the University of Idaho, Class of ’28, who loved, she said, a good hen fest. She had known Harald from a boy, she announced, and his old folks too, though long time no see. Anders, Harald’s father, had been the principal of the high school in Boise she and Harald had gone to, way back when. “Isn’t Kay a honey?” she at once demanded of Dottie. “Awfully nice,” said Dottie, warmly. Her neighbor was the sort that used to be called “peppy”; on the whole, Dottie agreed with the English teacher who said that it was wiser not to use slang because it dated you so quickly. “How come her parents didn’t show?” the woman continued, lowering her voice. “‘Show’?” repeated Dottie, at a loss—could she mean show dogs or cats? “Turn up for the wedding.” “Oh,” said Dottie, coughing. “I believe they sent Kay and Harald a check,” she murmured. “Rather than make the trip, you know.” The woman nodded. “That’s what Dave said—my husband. He figured they must have sent a check.” “So much more useful,” said Dottie. “Don’t you agree?” “Oh, sure,” said the woman. “I’m kind of an old softy, myself. I was married in a veil. …You know, I told Harald I’d have liked to give the wedding at my place. We could have scrounged up a minister and Dave could have taken some pictures, to send to the folks back home. But Kay had made all the arrangements, it seemed, by the time I got my bid in.” She stopped on a rising note and looked inquiringly at Dottie, who felt herself in deep waters. Kay’s plans, she said tactfully, turning it into a joke, were “as the laws of the Medes and the Persians”; nobody could change her. “Who was it said,” she added, twinkling, “that his wife had a whim of iron? My father always quotes that when he has to give in to Mother.” “Cute,” said her neighbor. “Harald’s a swell gent,” she went on, in a different voice, more thoughtful and serious. “Kind of a vulnerable gent, too. Though you might not think so.” She looked hard at Dottie and her plumes nodded

belligerently as she downed a glass of punch.

Across the table, farther down, on Kay’s left, the auburn-haired descendant of Hawthorne, who was talking to Priss Hartshorn, caught Dottie’s troubled eye and winked. Not knowing what else to do, Dottie gamely winked back. She had not imagined she was the type men winked at. The oldest of the group, nearly twenty-three now, thanks to the poor health that had kept her out of school as a child, she knew she was a bit of an old maid; the group teased her for her decorum and staid habits and mufflers and medicines and the long mink coat she wore on campus to keep off the cold, but she had a good sense of humor and quietly joined in the laugh. Her beaux had always treated her with respect; she was the sort of girl that people’s brothers took out and she had a whole string of pale young men who were studying archaeology or musicology or architecture in the Harvard Graduate School; she read out bits of their letters to the group—descriptions of concerts or of digs in the Southwest—and, playing Truth, admitted to having had two proposals. She had fine eyes, everyone told her, and a nice flashing set of white teeth and a pretty, if thin, cap of hair; her nose was rather long, in the pointed New England way, and her brows were black and a little heavy; she resembled the Copley portrait of an ancestress that hung in the family hall. In a modest way, she was fun-loving and even, she suspected, rather sensuous; she loved dancing and harmonizing and was always crooning to herself snatches of popular songs. Yet nobody had ever tried to take a liberty with her; some of the girls found it hard to believe this, but it was true. And the strange thing was, she would not have been shocked. The girls found the fact funny, but D. H. Lawrence was one of her favorite authors: he had such a true feeling for animals and for the natural side of life.

She and Mother had talked it over and agreed that if you were in love and engaged to a nice young man you perhaps ought to have relations once to make sure of a happy adjustment. Mother, who was very youthful and modern, knew of some very sad cases within her own circle of friends where the man and the woman just didn’t fit down there and ought never to have been married. Not believing in divorce, Dottie thought it very important to arrange that side of marriage properly; defloration, which the girls were always joking about in the smoking room, frightened her. Kay had had an awful time with Harald; five

 times, she insisted, before she was penetrated, and this in spite of basketball and a great deal of riding out West. Mother said you could have the hymen removed surgically, if you wanted, as royal families abroad were said to do; but perhaps a very gentle lover could manage to make it painless; hence it might be better to marry an older man, with experience.

The best man was proposing a toast; looking up, Dottie found Dick Brown’s (that was his name) bright grey eyes on her again. He raised his glass and drank to her, ceremoniously. Dottie drank in return. “Isn’t this fun?” cried Libby MacAusland, arching her long neck and weaving her head about and laughing in her exhausted style. “So much nicer,” purred the voices. “No receiving line, no formality, no older people.” “It’s just what I want for myself,” announced Libby. “A young people’s wedding!” She uttered a blissful scream as a Baked Alaska came in, the meringue faintly smoking. “Baked Alaska!” she cried and fell back, as if in a heap, on her chair. “Girls!” she said solemnly, pointing to the big ice-cream cake with slightly scorched peaks of meringue that was being lowered into position before Kay. “Look at it. Childhood dreams come true! It’s every children’s party in the whole blessed United States. It’s patent-leather slippers and organdy and a shy little boy in an Eton collar asking you to dance. I don’t know when I’ve been so excited. I haven’t seen one since I was twelve years old. It’s Mount Whitney; it’s Fujiyama.” The girls smiled forbearingly at each other; Libby “wrote.” But in fact they had shared her delight until she began talking about it, and a sigh of anticipation went up as they watched the hot meringue slump under Kay’s knife. Standing against the wall, the two waiters watched rather dourly. The dessert was not all that good. The meringue had browned unevenly; it was white in some places and burned black in others, which gave it a disagreeable taste. Underneath the slab of ice cream, the sponge cake was stale and damp. But fealty to Kay sent plates back for seconds. The Baked Alaska was the kind of thing that in Kay’s place the group hoped they would have thought of—terribly original for a wedding and yet just right when you considered it. They were all tremendously interested in cooking and quite out of patience with the unimaginative roasts and chops followed by molds from the caterer that Mother served; they were going to try new combinations and foreign recipes and

puffy omelets and soufflés and interesting aspics and just one hot dish in a Pyrex, no soup, and a fresh green salad.

“It’s a hotel trick,” explained the radio man’s wife, speaking across the table to Priss Hartshorn, who was going to be married herself in September. “They have the ice cream frozen hard as a rock and then, whoosh, into the oven. That way they take no chances, but between you and me it’s not what Mamma used to make.” Priss nodded worriedly; she was a solemn, ashy-haired little girl who looked like a gopher and who felt it her duty to absorb every bit of word-of-mouth information that pertained to consumer problems. Economics had been her major, and she was going to work in the consumer division of N.R.A. “Working conditions,” she declared, with her slight nervous stammer, “in some of our best hotel kitchens are way substandard, you know.” She had begun to feel her liquor; the punch was rather treacherous, even though applejack, being a natural product, was one of the purest things you could drink these days. In her haze, she saw the radio man stand up. “To the Class of Thirty-three,” he toasted. The others drank to the Vassar girls. “Bottoms up!” cried the man’s wife. From the silent best man came a cackling laugh. Tiddly as she was, Priss could tell that she and her friends, through no fault of their own, had awakened economic antagonism. Vassar girls, in general, were not liked, she knew, by the world at large; they had come to be a sort of symbol of superiority. She would have to see a good deal less of some of them after she was married if she wanted Sloan to keep in with his colleagues on

the staff of the hospital. She stared sadly at Pokey Prothero, her best friend, who was sitting sprawled out, across the table, putting ashes into her plate of melting ice cream and soggy cake with the very bad table manners that only the very rich could afford. There was a long spill down the front of her beautiful Lavin suit. Mentally, Priss applied Energine; her neat little soul scrubbed away. She did not know how Pokey would ever get along in life without a personal maid to take care of her. Ever since Chapin, she herself had been picking up after Pokey, making her use an ashtray in the smoking room, collecting her laundry and mailing it home for her, creeping into the common bathroom to wash the ring off the tub so that the others would not complain again. Poor Pokey, when she was married, would be doomed to a conventional establishment and a retinue of servants and governesses; she would miss all the fun and the alarums, as Mother called them, of starting on your own from scratch, with just a tweeny to help with the dishwashing and the heavy work.

Great wealth was a frightful handicap; it insulated you from living. The depression, whatever else you could say about it, had been a truly wonderful thing for the propertied classes; it had waked a lot of them up to the things that really counted. There wasn’t a family Priss knew that wasn’t happier and saner for having to scale down its expenditures; sacrifices had drawn the members together. Look at Polly Andrews’ family: Mr. Andrews had been in Riggs Clinic when the depression hit and all his investments went blotto; whereupon, instead of sinking deeper into melancholia and being put into a state hospital (grim thought!), he had come home and made himself useful as the family cook. He did every bit of the cooking and the marketing and served the most scrumptious meals, having learned about haute cuisine when they had their chateau in France; Mrs. Andrews did the scullery work and the vacuuming; everybody made his own bed; and the children, when they were home, washed up. They were the gayest family to visit, on the little farm they had managed to save near Stockbridge; Lakey went there last Thanksgiving and never had a better time—she only wished, she said, that her father would lose his money, like Mr. Andrews. She meant it quite seriously. Of course, it made a difference that the Andrews had always been rather highbrow; they had inner resources to fall back on.

Priss herself was a dyed-in-the-wool liberal; it ran in the blood. Her mother was a Vassar trustee, and her grandfather had been reform mayor of New York. Last year, when she had had to be a bridesmaid in a big social wedding at St. James’, with the carpet and the awning and so on, she had not been able to get over the sight of the unemployed crowding round the church entrance, with the police holding them back. It was not that Priss felt she had to change the world singlehanded, as her brother, who went to Yale, was always jeering, and she did not blame the class she was born into for wanting to hold onto its privileges—that was part of their conditioning. She was not in the least bit a socialist or a rebel, though even Sloan liked

to tease her about being one. To be a socialist, she thought, was a sort of luxury, when the world itself was changing so fast and there was so much that had to be done here and now. You could not sit down and wait for the millennium, any more than you could turn the clock back. The group used to play the game of when in history you would like to have lived if you could choose, and Priss was the only one who stuck up for the present; Kay picked the year 2000 (A.D., of course) and Lakey was for the quattrocento—which showed, incidentally, what a varied group they were. But seriously Priss could not imagine a more exciting time to come of age in than right now in America, and she felt awfully sorry for a person like Dick Brown, on her right, with his restless, bitter face and white unsteady hands; having talked with him quite a while (probably boring him stiff!), she could see that he was typical of that earlier generation of expatriates and bohemian rebels they had been studying about in Miss Lockwood’s course who were coming back now to try to find their roots again.

The gabble of voices slowly died down. The girls, confused by alcohol, cast inquiring looks at each other. What was to happen now? At an ordinary wedding, Kay and Harald would slip off to change to traveling costume, and Kay would throw her bouquet. But there was to be no honeymoon, they recalled. Kay and Harald, evidently, had nowhere to go but back to the sublet apartment they had just left this morning. Probably, if the group knew Kay, the bed was not even made. The funny, uneasy feeling that had come over them all in the chapel affected them again. They looked at their watches; it was only one-fifteen. How many hours till it was time for Harald to go to work? Doubtless, lots of couples got married and just went home again, but somehow it did not seem right to let that happen. “Should I ask them to Aunt Julia’s for coffee?” whispered Polly Andrews to Dottie, across the table. “It makes rather a lot,” murmured Dottie. “I don’t know what Ross would say.” Ross was Aunt Julia’s maid and quite a character. “Bother Ross!” said Polly. The two girls’ eyes went

up and down the table, counting, and then met, grave and startled. There were thirteen—eight of the group and five outsiders. How like Kay! Or was it an accident? Had someone dropped out at the last minute? Meanwhile, the radio man’s wife had been exchanging signals with her husband; she turned to Dottie and spoke sotto voce. “How would some of you gals like to drop around to my place for some Java? I’ll give Kay and Harald the high sign.” Dottie hesitated; perhaps this would really be more suitable, but she did not like to decide for Kay, who might prefer Aunt Julia’s. A sense that everything was getting too involved, wheels within wheels, depressed her.

Pokey Prothero’s voice, like a querulous grackle, intervened. “You two are supposed to go away,” she suddenly complained, crushing out her cigarette and looking through her lorgnon with an air of surprised injury from the bride to the groom. Trust Pokey, thought the girls, with a joint sigh. “Where should we go, Pokey?” answered Kay, smiling. “Yes, Pokey, where should we go?” agreed the bridegroom. Pokey considered. “Go to Coney Island,” she said. Her tone of irrefutable, self-evident logic, like that of an old man or a child, took everyone aback for a second. “What a splendid idea!” cried Kay. “On the subway?” “Brighton Express, via Flatbush Avenue,” intoned Harald. “Change at Fulton Street.” “Pokey, you’re a genius,” said everyone, in voices of immense relief. Harald paid the bill and launched into a discussion of roller coasters, comparing the relative merits of the Cyclone and the Thunderbolt. Compacts came out; fur pieces were clipped together; daily remembrancers of dark-blue English leather were consulted. The room was full of movement and laughter. “How did Pokey ever think of it?,” “The perfect end to a perfect wedding,” “Just right,” the voices reiterated, as gloves were pulled on.

The party moved out to the street; the radio man, who had left his camera in the check room, took pictures on the sidewalk, in the bright June sunlight. Then they all walked along Eighth Street to the subway at Astor Place, while passers-by turned to stare at them, and right down to the turnstiles. “Kay must throw her bouquet!” shrieked Libby MacAusland, stretching on her long legs, like a basketball center, as a crowd of people massed to watch them. “My girl’s from Vassar; none can surpass ’er,” the radio man struck up. Harald produced two nickels and the newlyweds passed through the turnstile; Kay, who, all agreed, had never looked prettier, turned and threw her bouquet, high in the air, back over the turnstiles to the waiting girls. Libby jumped and caught it, though it had really been aimed at Priss just behind her. And at that moment Lakey gave them all a surprise; the brown-paper parcels she had checked in the hotel proved to contain rice. “That was what you stopped for!” exclaimed Dottie, full of wonder, as the wedding party seized handfuls and pelted them after the bride and the groom; the platform was showered with white grains when the local train finally came in. “That’s banal! That’s not like you, Eastlake!” Kay turned and shouted as the train doors were closing, and everyone, dispersing, agreed that it was not like Lakey at all, but that, banal or not, it was just the little touch that had been needed to found off an unforgettable occasion.