# All Kneeling/Chapter 18

The porter made Mrs. Caine trot to keep up Tin him. Between the way he hurried and the people who pushed between them, she had hard work keeping her eye on her bag, with her silver brush and mirror in it, and her aquamarine brooch set in seed pearls. But when he asked, "Taxi?" over his shoulder, and she answered with quiet dignity, "I think a private car will meet me," his manner changed entirely. And when he saw the big Rolls-Royce, with chauffeur and footman, he became so polite that she had to add another quarter to the quarter she had clutched, ready, ever since she got off the train.
She sat up very straight, looking at her reflection in the front window, made into a mirror by the two impressive plum-covered backs. She felt shy and conspicuous. But she scolded herself. Don't be so silly! Nobody's looking at you! Relax! She relaxed firmly.
​The house was full of flowers. "Well, you look very festive, Smedley," she said, giving the butler the bunch of early daffodils from the garden she had brought for Christabel.
"Yes, madam. We're having a dinner tonight."
A dinner! Oh, dear, she thought, there'll be a lot of celebrities who won't want to talk to me. I wish to goodness there wasn't going to be a dinner!
Thank Heaven, she had made over her black evening dress, after a picture in Vogue. Fred said it looked fine. And, telling herself that no one would look at her, she was exhilarated by the thought that ran beneath—it does look nice!
It was late when Christabel rushed in, her cheeks glowing pink, her eyes starry.
"Oh, mother, mother, mother! Oh, darling, how heavenly to have you! I was heartbroken that I couldn't meet you! Did they tell you? It was just one of those things—oooh!"
"You're crushing—your—lovely gardenias, ​dearie!" Mrs. Caine protested, her mouth full of fragrant fur. Christabel released her and held her at arm's length.
"Let me look at you. Oh, mother darling, you've gotten thinner! That's naughty of you. And you look so tired, dear."
"I'm not a bit——"
"You're going to have a real rest while you're here. First, you're going to have a delicious hot bath with geranium salts, and then a nice little dinner on a tray, here in front of the fire. I wish I could have it with you, just us two, but, alas! we've got some stupid people dining here. I dread the thought! I won't inflict anyone on you tonight, darling, but tomorrow, when you're all rested, I've planned a little dinner, especially for you, and a theater party."
"Christabel, I really don't feel a bit tired——"
"I don't believe you ever think about yourself long enough to know whether you feel tired or not, but now you have some one to think ​about you in spite of yourself. How's my darling daddy?"
"Very well, and sent heaps of love. But Uncle Johnnie's been quite ill."
"Oh, too bad!"
"They think he may have to come——"
"Heavens! Look at the time! There's nothing I'd love better than to sit down and have a nice long talk, darling, and hear all the news, but if I don't fly——"
"Christabel! Who's coming to dinner tomorrow?" Mrs. Caine called after her, and she called back:
"The Glenworthy girls! Won't that be nice?"
Mrs. Caine went and had a long look at her evening dress, on its padded hanger. She saw herself coming down the broad stairs. "My mother——" "My mother——" She turned graciously from celebrity to celebrity, surprising them by her intelligence, her unaffected charm. Then she made a face, saying "The Glenworthy girls!" under her breath.
​But, taking her bath, wrapping herself in a heated towel soft as deep moss, she saw herself against a background of old oak paneling, hothouse roses, Smedley's shirt front, fragile in filmy black, being gracious to the poor old Glenworthys.
"Christabel spoils me so. She thinks nothing is too good for her mother! And she worries about me ridiculously. Why, last night——"
She got into the orchid bed-jacket Christabel had given her long ago. It was as nice as ever, for she only used it on her visits here. It almost hadn't been worn at all.
Nice Bessie, who never made her feel shy, as Smedley and Alfred and Minnie did, brought in her tray, and she said, graciously: "Well, Bessie! How have you been?" Dinner was delicious. Christabel had even remembered how she loved grapefruit. And there was a cluster of her favorite violets on the tray. Who but Christabel would think of a thing like that?"
​Hearing gentle snores, Christabel sighed, smiled, and went in to wake Curtis with a kiss. "Darling, you must get dressed! It's almost dinner-time."
"Aw-w-igh——" he agreed through a yawn. "Who's coming tonight?"
"The Treasure Seekers."
"Oh, Gosh! That lot!"
"What do you mean by that lot?"
"Oh, all showing off and being sensitive souls, and the men a lot of sissies."
"Curtis, you hurt me when you speak of my friends that way."
"And not a pretty woman in the lot."
She kissed his arm lightly. "But they're all so worth while. Now do hurry, dearest."
She hadn't decided what to wear. Now Minnie stood waiting, while Christabel looked at rows of dresses. There hung the silver-blue gown, with silver stars thick about the hem, from Laura Burke's shop. She had said to Laura, "I'll wear it and advertise the shop to everybody," and Laura had cried gratefully:
​"You must take it for a tiny little present—please, please, Christabel!"
She wouldn't hear of that. It was nonsense, when Laura was so poor, though of course Christabel had always been kind to her. She had worn it one evening, crying: "See! I've walked through the Milky Way! I've gotten stars all over my skirt!" And everyone had admired her in it. But somehow there had been no opportunity to mention Laura's shop without simply dragging it in. And though she meant to pay for it, Laura never sent a bill, and she had too much on her mind to be expected to remember. She was sick of the wretched gown and everything to do with it, for really, Laura and Laura's things were just a little bit too queer and arty to be taken seriously.
Ellen Beach looked in for the seating plan of the table, and Christabel bundled the gown into her arms.
"A little present. Wear it tonight."
"Oh Christabel! Oh, thank you! It's divine. Oh, but you're too good to me!"
​"It's just the color of your eyes. Your Nick will fall in love deeper than ever," Christabel said. She had yielded to a generous impulse and invited Ellen's fiancé, Nicholas Portal, to dinner. She hoped he would be presentable. Ellen, who should have been down putting the place cards around, leaned in the doorway, silver-blue folds pouring from her crossed arms, looking lost and happy. "Wake up, Ellen darling, wake up!" Christabel called to her. "I really do believe the child's in love!"
Ellen threw her arms tight around Christabel's neck, hiding her face, whispering:
"I am—I am!"
A Venetian lady in trailing silver, Christabel went to Curtis's dressing room, and found him in his underclothes, practicing golf strokes.
"Really, Curtis! You must get dressed. It's a quarter to eight. Mother came, but she's too——"
Curtis's eyes glazed; he settled himself on his feet; his joined hands slowly lifted, then ​swished in an are through the air. He kept his head down. He had made a glorious drive.
Christabel stood in hurt silence, supported on one side by a shadowy Maurice, who lifted her white hand and kissed it, on the other by a shadowy sympathetic Austin. Again Curtis bent in a slight bow, again his joined hands slowly lifted.
"Curtis, really!"
"It's all in keeping your left arm straight," he told her, dreamily.
"Please try to be ready to receive our guests," she said. Feeling utterly wasted, she went to say good night to Michael and Marigold.
"Oh, Mummy, Mummy, my darlingest Mummy! Read us a story!"
"Read us Uncle Wiggly in the paper!"
"Uncle Wiggly! Darlings! You know Mummy never reads you anything like that."
"Daddy does."
"You know Mummy only reads you things that are beautiful or true."
​"Tell us about Krazy Kat and Ignatz Mouse!"
"Michael!"
"Well, Alfred does. Ignatz hits Krazy with a brick, and Krazy says Powie! Powie! Powie!"
"Oh, Mummy! Michael swore! He said Powie! Michael Carey, aren't you ashamed of yourself? Mummy! Mummy!"
"Marigold! Children! Don't shout so! Mummy hasn't time to tell you a story tonight. Now get under the covers, darlings, and think that your beds were once trees, covered with little dancing leaves that sometimes were golden with sunlight and sometimes were silver with moonlight. And what did they hold tenderly, all night through, in their brown arms?"
"Tree toads!"
"No, darling, nests, safe warm nests to hold sleepy baby birds, and that's what you two are, sleepy little birds safe in your nests in the trees. Michael! Stop that noise!"
"I'm a bird! I'm singing."
​"Now Mummy must go. Good night, my babies."
"Don't go! Don't go, my sweet beautiful Mummy!" Marigold cried, flinging her arms around Christabel, rolling her eyes; and Michael copied her. "My sweet beautiful Mummy!"
"She isn't your Mummy, she's my Mummy!"
"Darlings, darlings! Do you really love poor Mummy so much?" Christabel kissed soft firm cheeks, silky tops of heads, the little hollows in the backs of their necks.
"Ooh, Mummy! You tickle!"
"I don't like them getting wild'm; then it takes forever before they get to sleep," Nurse said, disapprovingly.
"My beautiful 'dorable Mummy! They won't be anyone at the dinner party as beautiful as my shiny Mummy!"
"They'll do anything to stay up a little longer," Nurse put in. I really don't like her, Christabel thought, on her way to her mother's ​room. It is time for Nurse to go. Mademoiselle is enough for the children now.
Mrs. Caine had just finished dinner and pushed the grapefruit skin back into round so the servants shouldn't know she had been greedy and squeezed, when Christabel came in, trailing silver.
"How lovely you look! But are they wearing trains, Christabel?" she asked, for the dress she had made over was far from having a train.
"I don't really know what they're wearing, darling. Is it so very important?"
"Aren't you feeling well?"
"Oh, well enough—no, I'm not! I feel—— Oh, it isn't anything."
"You do too much, dear. You never spare yourself."
"I am tired. And—oh—Curtis is being a little—difficult—this evening; he always is when I have my special friends. I have his old bankers and golfers and bridge-playing pret-ty wom-en——she wrinkled her nose—"a thou​sand times, and then I have my own kind, the people who really amount to something, writers and painters and musicians, just once, and he can hardly live through it. Oh, well, I ought to be used to it by now, only I do so long for a little understanding, a little give and take."
"Why, Curtis adores you, Christabel."
"Yes, of course he does. It's a wise little mother, and a comforting one. I wish I could stay up here with you, just the two of us, cozily! I'll be thinking of you all evening. Now go to bed soon and have a lovely sleep. Good night, dearest."
But nobody comes to New York for a lovely sleep, Mrs. Caine thought, rebelliously. Besides, she didn't feel sleepy. If she had been at home, she and Fred would just be starting for a movie or settling down to a game of Russian Bank. What's Fred doing now? she wondered, feeling rather homesick.
She tried to find something to read. There was O Fair Dove, but she knew that nearly by ​heart. A book by someone named Santayana. Edith Sitwell's poems.
Well, of course it was nice, but what did it mean? Unfortunately, she had finished The Saturday Evening Post on the train. She loved it, though when it was mentioned Christabel smiled and said she hadn't the least doubt it had splendid stories.
There was thick creamy paper in the desk, with the address in fat letters. She rather liked the idea of writing to some of her friends, Anna McHugh, or Hattie Nelson, just to impress them. "I am here with Christabel——" But the green quill, when pulled from its tumbler of shot, proved to have no pen in it, and it wouldn't have helped if it had, as the green-​jade inkwell was empty. I don't think I'd better ring and ask for pen and ink, she thought. Probably everyone's busy helping with the dinner party.
But she had a pencil in her bag, so she wrote a long letter to Fred about how sweet and thoughtful Christabel was being.