Paradise Garden: The Satirical Narrative of a Great Experiment

"Oh, is it?" said Una innocently. "I can't see why. Marcia knows. Everybody ought to. It was such a splendid thing to do."

"Jerry is so modest," said Marcia.

"The plans are simply adorable," Una went on quickly. "You know, Jerry, we simply had to have that open-air school on the roof. You know, you didn't object—"

"N—no—of course," said Jerry, shifting his feet.

"And the ward for nursing babies—we did put those windows in the west wall. You know we were a little uncertain about that."

"So we were," echoed Jerry dismally.

This was merely the preliminary skirmish with Una's outposts holding their positions close to the enemy's lines. But Marcia was not to be daunted. She opened fire immediately.

"It's simply dear of you, Una, to take so much interest in the work. I'm sure Jerry must have frightful difficulties in managing to spend his income. But to have his oldest friend to help him must relieve him of a tremendous burden of responsibility."

The outposts withdrew to the main line of skirmirshers and there opened fire again, from cover.

"It isn't so much a matter of friendship as of real interest in the needs of the community, you know. Anyone else would do quite as well as I; for instance, you, Marcia."

"But you see," Marcia countered coolly, "I haven't known Jerry nearly so long as you have."

"Haven't you?"

"I don't think so. Have I, Jerry?"

Jerry evaded the issue with some skill.

"Friendships aren't reckoned in terms of time," he put in with a short laugh. "If they were I'd be the most solitary person under the sun."

Marcia merely smiled, saying nothing, and when she joined the talk of another group I saw Una's gaze following her curiously.

She seemed to be able to understand Marcia little better than I did. But in a moment from my seat in the corner just beside them I saw Una look about the room and give a little gasp of pleasure.

"This cabin! Do you remember, Jerry?" she said quietly. "You gave me a cup of tea here and we decided just what you and I were going to do with the wicked world?"

"Oh, don't I? And you told me all about the plague spots?"

"Yes." She gazed out of the window. "You were interesting that day, Jerry."

"Was! I like that."

"So elephantine in your seriousness—"

"Elephantine! Oh, I say—"

"But you were nice. I don't think I've ever liked you so much as then. I think you're really much more interesting when you're elephantine. It was quite glorious the way you were planning to go galumphing over all vice and wickedness."

He shook his head soberly.

"I haven't made good, Una."

"Oh, there's still time. The jungle is still there, but it's an awfully big jungle, Jerry, bigger than you thought."

"Yes—bigger and swampier," he said slowly.

"I think if I could see more of you, Una, I might be better."

"I don't know that I've ever denied you the house," she laughed.

"I—I'm coming soon. But I want you to see my place here—the house, I mean. Couldn't you come with your mother and—and sisters and spend a few days up here?"

"Perhaps it would be time enough for me to answer that question when mother does. I—I am busy, you know."

"Please! And we can have one of our good old chats."

"Yes," and then mischievously, "but you'd better ask Marcia first, don't you think?"

His gaze fell and he reddened.

"I—I don't quite see what Marcia's got to do with it," he muttered.

"Oh, don't you?"

"No."

She smiled and then with a really serious air:

"Well, I do. I'm sorry I intruded, Jerry. I wouldn't have come for the world if I had known—"

"What nonsense you do talk. Promise me you'll come, Una."

"Ask Marcia first."

He laughed uneasily. "What a tease you are!"

"You ought to be very much flattered."

"How?"

"To be worth teasing."

Here they moved slightly away, turning their backs toward me and unfortunately I could hear no more. And so I sat listening to the group around Marcia, who was again enthroned at the tea-table.

I had not met the men, but they were of the usual man-about-town type, "Marcia's ex-es" somebody, I think the mannish Carew girl, amusingly called them. Among them Arthur Colton, married only a year, who already boasted that he was living "the simple double life." Besides the Laidlaws there were the Walsenberg woman, twice a grass widow and still hopeful, and the Da Costa debutante who looked as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, giggled constantly and said things which she fondly hoped to be devilish, but which were only absurd. This was the girl, I think, whom Jerry had described as having only five adjectives, all of which she used every minute. Channing Lloyd, a glass of champagne at his elbow, laughed gruffly and filled the room with tobacco smoke. I listened. Small talk, banalities, bits of narrow glimpses of narrow pursuits. I had to admit that Marcia quite dominated this circle, and I understood why. Shallow as she was, she was the only one with the possible exception of Phil Laidlaw who gave any evidence of having done any thinking at all. I might have known as I listened that her conversation had a purpose.

"I claim that obedience to the will of man," Marcia was saying, "has robbed woman of all initiative, all incentive to achievement, all creative faculty, and that only by renouncing man and all his works will she ever be his equal."

"Why don't you renounce 'em then, Marcia?" roared Lloyd, amid laughter.