encounter with Sondra, was surprised by the sight of a
cream-colored note leaning against the mirror of his
dresser. It was addressed in a large, scrawly and unfamiliar
hand. He picked it up and turned it over without being able
in any way to fix upon the source. On the back were the
initials B. T. or J. T., he could not decide which, so
elaborately intertwined was the engraved penmanship. He
tore it open and drew out a card which read:
The Now and Then Club Will Hold Its First Winter Dinner Dance At the
On the back of this, though, in the same scrawly hand that
graced the envelope was written: “Dear Mr. Griffiths:
Thought you might like to come. It will be quite informal.
And I’m sure you’ll like it. If so, will you let Jill Trumbull
know? Sondra Finchley.”
Quite amazed and thrilled, Clyde stood and stared. For ever
since that second contact with her, he had been more
definitely fascinated than at any time before by the dream
that somehow, in some way, he was to be lifted from the
lowly state in which he now dwelt. He was, as he now saw
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it, really too good for the commonplace world by which he
was environed. And now here was this—a social invitation
issued by the “Nowand Then Club,” of which, even though
he had never heard of it, must be something, since it was
sponsored by such exceptional people. And on the back of
it, was there not the writing of Sondra herself? How
marvelous, really!
So astonished was he that he could scarcely contain
himself for joy, but now on the instant must walk to and fro,
looking at himself in the mirror, washing his hands and
face, then deciding that his tie was not just right, perhaps,
and changing to another—thinking forward to what he
should wear and back upon how Sondra had looked at him
on that last occasion. And how she had smiled. At the same
time he could not help wondering even at this moment of
what Roberta would think, if now, by some extra optical
power of observation she could note his present joy in
connection with this note. For plainly, and because he was
no longer governed by the conventional notions of his
parents, he had been allowing himself to drift into a position
in regard to her which would certainly spell torture to her in
case she should discover the nature of his present mood, a
thought which puzzled him not a little, but did not serve to
modify his thoughts in regard to Sondra in the least.
That wonderful girl!
That beauty!
That world of wealth and social position she lived in!
At the same time so innately pagan and unconventional
were his thoughts in regard to all this that he could now ask
himself, and that seriously enough, why should he not be
allowed to direct his thoughts toward her and away from
Roberta, since at the moment Sondra supplied the keener
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thought of delight. Roberta could not know about this. She
could not see into his mind, could she—become aware of
any such extra experience as this unless he told her. And
most assuredly he did not intend to tell her. And what harm,
he now asked himself, was there in a poor youth like
himself aspiring to such heights? Other youths as poor as
himself had married girls as rich as Sondra.
For in spite of all that had occurred between him and
Roberta he had not, as he now clearly recalled, given her
his word that he would marry her except under one
condition. And such a condition, especially with the
knowledge that he had all too clearly acquired in Kansas
City, was not likely to happen as he thought.
And Sondra, now that she had thus suddenly burst upon
him again in this way was the same as a fever to his fancy.
This goddess in her shrine of gilt and tinsel so utterly
enticing to him, had deigned to remember him in this open
and direct way and to suggest that he be invited. And no
doubt she, herself, was going to be there, a thought which
thrilled him beyond measure.
And what would not Gilbert and the Griffiths think if they
were to hear of his going to this affair now, as they surely
would? Or meet him later at some other party to which
Sondra might invite him? Think of that! Would it irritate or
please them? Make them think less or more of him? For,
after all, this certainly was not of his doing. Was he not
properly invited by people of their own station here in
Lycurgus whom most certainly they were compelled to
respect? And by no device of his, either—sheer accident—
the facts concerning which would most certainly not reflect
on him as pushing. As lacking as he was in some of the
finer shades of mental discrimination, a sly and ironic
pleasure lay in the thought that now Gilbert and the Griffiths
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might be compelled to countenance him whether they
would or not—invite him to their home, even. For, if these
others did, how could they avoid it, really? Oh, joy! And that
in the face of Gilbert’s high contempt for him. He fairly
chuckled as he thought of it, feeling that however much
Gilbert might resent it, neither his uncle nor Myra were likely
to, and that hence he would be fairly safe from any secret
desire on the part of Gilbert to revenge himself on him for
this.
But how wonderful this invitation! Why that intriguing
scribble of Sondra’s unless she was interested in him
some? Why? The thought was so thrilling that Clyde could
scarcely eat his dinner that night. He took up the card and
kissed the handwriting. And instead of going to see Roberta
as usual, he decided as before on first reëncountering her,
to walk a bit, then return to his room, and retire early. And
on the morrow as before he could make some excuse—say
that he had been over to the Griffiths’ home, or some one
of the heads of the factory, in order to listen to an
explanation in regard to something in connection with the
work, since there were often such conferences. For, in the
face of this, he did not care to see or talk to Roberta this
night. He could not. The other thought—that of Sondra and
her interest in him—was too enticing.
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Chapter 25
BUT in the interim, in connection with his relations with
Roberta no least reference to Sondra, although, even when
near her in the factory or her room, he could not keep his
thoughts from wandering away to where Sondra in her
imaginary high social world might be. The while Roberta, at
moments only sensing a drift and remoteness in his thought
and attitude which had nothing to do with her, was
wondering what it was that of late was beginning to occupy
him so completely. And he, in his turn, when she was not
looking was thinking—supposing?—supposing—(since she
had troubled to recall herself to him), that he could interest
a girl like Sondra in him? What then of Roberta? What?
And in the face of this intimate relation that had now been
established between them? (Goodness! The deuce!) And
that he did care for her (yes, he did), although now—
basking in the direct rays of this newer luminary—he could
scarcely see Roberta any longer, so strong were the actinic
rays of this other. Was he all wrong? Was it evil to be like
this? His mother would say so! And his father too—and
perhaps everybody who thought right about life—Sondra
Finchley, maybe—the Griffiths—all.
And yet! And yet! It was snowing the first light snow of the
year as Clyde, arrayed in a new collapsible silk hat and
white silk muffler, both suggested by a friendly ‘haberdasher
—Orrin Short, with whom recently he had come in contact
here—and a new silk umbrella wherewith to protect himself
from the snow, made his way toward the very interesting, if
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not so very imposing residence of the Trumbulls on
Wykeagy Avenue. It was quaint, low and rambling, and the
lights beaming from within upon the many drawn blinds
gave it a Christmas-card effect. And before it, even at the
prompt hour at which he arrived, were ranged a half dozen
handsome cars of various builds and colors. The sight of
them, sprinkled on tops, running boards and fenders with
the fresh, flaky snow, gave him a keen sense of a
deficiency that was not likely soon to be remedied in his
case—the want of ample means wherewith to equip himself
with such a necessity as that. And inside as he approached
the door he could hear voices, laughter and conversation