Kitty Conover ate in the kitchen. First off, this statement is likely
to create the false impression that there was an ordinary grain here,
a wedge of base hemlock in the citron. Not so. She ate in the kitchen
because she could not yet face that vacant chair in the dining room
without choking and losing her appetite. She could not look at the chair
without visualizing that glorious, whimsical, fascinating mother of
hers, who could turn grumpy janitors into comedians and send importunate
bill collectors away with nothing but spangles in their heads.
So long as she stayed out of the dining room she could accept her
loneliness with sound philosophy. She knew, as all sensible people know,
that there were ghosts, that memory had haunted galleries, and that
empty chairs were evocations.
Her days were so busily active, there were so many first nights and
concerts, that she did not mind such evenings as she had to spend alone
in the apartment. Persons were in and out of the office all through
the day, and many of them entertaining. For only real persons ever
penetrated that well-guarded cubby-hole off the noisy city room. Many
of them were old friends of her mother. Of course they were a little
pompous, but this was less innate than acquired; and she knew that below
they were worth while. She had come to the conclusion that successful
actors and actresses were the only people in America who spoke English
fluently and correctly.
Yes, she ate in the kitchen; but she would have been a fit subject for
the fastidious Fragonard. Kitty was naturally an exquisite. Everything
about her was dainty, her body and her mind. The background of pans and
dishes, gas range and sink did not absorb Kitty; her presence here in
the morning lifted everything out of the rut of commonplace and created
an atmosphere that was ornamental. Pink peignoir and turquoise-blue
boudoir cap, silk petticoat and stockings and adorable little slippers.
No harm to tell the secret! Kitty was educating herself for a husband.
She knew that if she acquired the habit of daintiness at breakfast
before marriage it would become second nature after marriage. Moreover,
she was determined that it should be tremendous news that would cause a
newspaper to intervene. She had all the confidence in the world in her
mirror.
She got her breakfast this morning, singing. She was happy. She had
found a door out of monotony; theatrical drama had given way to the
living. She had opened the book of adventure and she was going straight
through to finis. That there was an undertow of the sinister escaped her
or she ignored it.