# Lost Ecstasy/Chapter 13

OF the debacle that followed that night, Kay was never able to think except with a sense of shuddering horror. She dressed feverishly, intent only on getting back quickly to the club, and at seven-thirty she heard the telephone ring, and Rutherford coming heavily up the stairs and tapping at her mother's door.
"It is Mr. Trowbridge, madam. Mrs. Trowbridge has an attack of neuralgia, and will be unable to come."
Then shortly after that Katherine along the hall, her dressing gown around her shoulders.
"What are you doing tonight, Kay? Anything important?"
"There's a dance at the club."
"Oh, if that's all—Mrs. Trowbridge has a headache, and he is coming without her. I'm afraid you'll have to make a fourth at bridge."
"But, mother——"
"It's only a dance, isn't it? You can go over later if you like."
"I've promised," she said desperately. "Can't you get somebody else?"
"I have tried. So many people have gone back to town, and the rest—I do think, Kay," she added with a faint asperity, "that when you think how little we really ask of you you might do this pleasantly."
She had to agree finally. There was nothing else to do. But Katherine did not go at once. She moved around the room.
"We will have to replace these taffeta curtains next spring. They have faded outrageously."
But Kay had an idea that she was not thinking of the curtains. When at last she went to the door she stood there, hesitating.
​"You're feeling all right, aren't you, Kay? I've thought lately—maybe that dress makes you look pale."
"I'm all right, mother."
Later on they went down the stairs together, and some impulse made her put her arm around Katherine's shoulders. Perhaps she felt that she was somehow being treacherous to this Katherine, who had left her dreams all behind her, and who now said "we" insteadof "I."
Mr. Trowbridge, being relieved of his hat, overcoat, gloves and stick in the hall, looked up at them with approval.
"Ought to be painted like that," he said. "Poor Sargent should have done it. Mother and daughter. Question: which is the mother?"
He was a large gentleman of an elephantine wit, and just now in an excellent humor. He had walked over in the crisp air, he knew he would have a good dinner, and he was ready for it.
"Some day soon, Henry," he said as he followed them into the drawing room, "some nice young chap will be stealing this girl of yours. Make quite a hole in the establishment, eh?"
"Not necessarily, if she picks the right one."
Cocktails and fresh caviare. Very good cocktails, very good caviare. Mr. Trowbridge lingered over both. Rutherford was waiting in the doorway to catch her mother's eye, but she was not looking.
"There's Rutherford, mother."
"Have another cocktail, George? You've had a good walk."
"Why, I don't mind, Henry. Where did you find this caviare? The last lot we got——"
The old glutton, always thinking of his stomach! It was a quarter after eight already. She caught him by the elbow.
"Dinner's served," she said lightly. "And I'm hungry, if you're not."
They wandered out somehow. There was a new painting in the hall, and he must stop and look at it. Her feet and hands were like ice, and her head was hot. Dinner came on, ​course after course, her mother eating delicately, her father appreciatively and Mr. Trowbridge slowly and with unction. Oysters, soup, fish, roast; sherry and sauterne. "Very good wine that. Still some of the old stock? Yes, I think I will."
Salad and sweet. And then Mr. Trowbridge taking fruit, cutting it meticulously with the gold fruit knife, eating and savoring it deliberately. Wouldn't they ever get through? They had been years at the table. The candles were melting, splashing little drops of blue wax onto the lace cloth; the room was broiling hot. Mr. Trowbridge's jaws moved steadily, appreciatively.
"I think I'll have a few more of those hot house grapes, Katherine. They are really excellent."
Over at last. Pushing back the chairs and James opening the door. Into the hall and then to the library. Coffee. Coffee quickly and get it over. Where's the bridge table? Where are the cards?
"Do stop fidgeting, Kay. James will get the tables. Will you have more coffee, George?"
"You tempt me, Katherine. Even if I don't sleep tonight——"
Her eyes were burning. Her mother was pouring the coffee with delicate deliberation; the gleam and glitter of the massive tray, with its tiny cups, its elaborate panoply of wealth, made her dizzy. And what nonsense it all was, James moving like an acolyte across the room with that ridiculous cup balanced on a tray, and Rutherford like some high priest, reverently bearing in the liqueurs. How much simpler and easier life had been at the ranch, with the cook in the kitchen doorway:
"I hope you folks'll like that coffee. It's strong enough to bear an egg."
The ranch. The ranch.
At half past nine she managed to slip away to call Tom from the telephone in her bedroom, but both Nora and a housemaid were in her room, Nora to lay out her sheer nightgown, the maid turning down the bed.
"Put a wrap down in the hall for me," she told Nora. "I'm going out later."
​The game dragged on. Mr. Trowbridge played as he ate, slowly and with unction.
"Now, if Providence is with me, Henry, this will go. If not—but let me see. Four and three and three make ten. Hah, you rascal, you have another trump, haven't you? Holding out on me, eh? Well, let's have it."
A sort of madness began to possess her. Eleven, eleven-fifteen, and still they went on. She pleaded a headache, but they only offered her perfunctory sympathy and continued playing. Hawkins had been dozing in the car outside for an hour before Mr. Trowbridge reluctantly laid down the cards and plunged a hand into his pocket.
"Well," he said, "fourteen dollars is a small price for an evening like this."
She left them with hardly a good night, picked up her wrap and went out. Hawkins stirred, roused and started the car. She called to him to hurry, but the distance seemed to be interminable. However, the sight of the club house cheered her. The dance was still going on, and one or two cars were arriving. What had seemed the middle of the night over home seemed the beginning of the evening here.
All her vague forebodings vanished. She ran up the steps and inside, to find Herbert inside the door. He had evidently been waiting for her, and there was a look of pity on his face.