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Aileen’s Last Card

           To-nighthewassittinginthecourtoforchids,readingabook—thediaryofCellini,whichsomeonehadrecommendedtohim—stoppingtothinknowandthenofthingsinChicagoorSpringfield,ortomakeanote.Outsidetherainwassplashingintorrentsontheelectric-lightedasphaltofFifthAvenue—theParkoppositeaCorot-likeshadow.Aileenwasinthemusic-roomstrummingindifferently.Shewasthinkingoftimespast—Lynde,fromwhomshehadnotheardinhalfayear;WatsonSkeet,thesculptor,whowasalsooutofherkenatpresent.WhenCowperwoodwasinthecityandinthehouseshewasaccustomedfromhabittoremainindoorsornear.Sogreatistheinfluenceofpastcustomsofdevotionthattheylingerlongpastthehourwhentheactceasestobecomevalid.

           "Whatanawfulnight!"sheobservedonce,strollingtoawindowtopeeroutfrombehindabrocadedvalance.

           "Itisbad,isn’tit?"repliedCowperwood,asshereturned."Hadn’tyouthoughtofgoinganywherethisevening?"

           "No—ohno,"repliedAileen,indifferently.Sheroserestlesslyfromthepiano,andstrolledonintothegreatpicture-gallery.StoppingbeforeoneofRaphaelSanzio’sHolyFamilies,onlyrecentlyhung,shepausedtocontemplatethesereneface—medieval,Madonnaesque,Italian.

           Theladyseemedfragile,colorless,spineless—withoutlife.Weretheresuchwomen?Whydidartistspaintthem?YetthelittleChristwassweet.ArtboredAileenunlessotherswereenthusiastic.

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