Atlanta Daily World

CHAPTER 17

LYDIA MILBURN was small and fragile-looking. She wore a ruffled frock of tawny lace, with many twinkles of rhinestone buttons; she waved a cigaret in a long, skinny holder, and her laugh tinkled.

"You must come back and talk to me, Dr. Mays," she said with the assurance of an empress who is accustomed to having her every wish fulfilled.

And, sure enough-having been introduced to several men, a lawyer, a chap named Tar, two called Bill, one called Sterling and as many women, one thin and thirtyish, one stout and fortyish, a pretty, young one Chad did find himself back in the chair beside Mrs. Milburn's table.

The young manservant was proffering his tray of glasses.

Chad selected a tidbit from a plate of hor d'oeuvres, leaned back and surveyed his hostess.

"Lillian Gish," he said, and popped the canape into his mouth.

The silvery curls danced in an excess of merriment. "I'm afraid you're incorrigible." she tinkled.

"This pate," he confided, reaching for another canape, "reminds me of Africa. They make a paste of grasshoppers there-mash 'em up, you know. Not bad at all."

"When were you in Africa?" asked Lacey from a chair ten feet away."

"What part?" asked someone else.

He answered them both, and launched a detailed account of everyday life in Nyasaland.

He exhausted the subject, or his knowledge of it, and then began methodically to eat every canape upon the plate. "I forgot to eat lunch," he told his hostess.

Chad picked up his glass, held it to his lips, with a smile dancing in his eyes and creasing his cheeks.

"What's so funny?" Mrs. Milburn asked him.

Chad waved his hand and the glass in a wide, inclusive arc.

"They all believed me," he chuckled.

"It wasn't any of it true. I've never been near Africa -but you all believed me."

He drained his glass, leaned back in his chair, and looked pleased with himself, as if he didn't care what the others might say, or think.

1955, by Elizabeth Seifert
He sat on and on, watching Lacey from behind his lowered eyelids, noting her ease, her apparent liking for people nicely tempered with shyness, the warmth of her voice and smile- was it real? Genuine? Honest?

Maybe it was all honest. Years ago, fourteen-year-old Chad had probably been jealous of his mother's liking for people, just as now a supposedly adult Chad resented the fact that he must share Lacey's attention with a dozen strangers.

Well, he did resent it. He'd come out here to talk to Lacey, to question her, and persuade her . . .

Some guests departed, others arrived. Among the newcomers was a woman in flowered crepe who greeted Alice Milburn as only a sworn enemy can courteously salute a rival.

She was introduced to Chad as a Mrs. Castleberry.

As she moved on, he turned to his hostess.

"She hates your guts," he said in a diagnostic tone.

The thin cigaret holder fluttered, the laugh trilled.

"Now, Dr. Mays . . ."

"To do with the clinic?" His tone suddenly was brisk, cold.

"Well-yes in a way. She's president of the Women's Club and they-well-disapprove of the whole activity. The idea has to be sold to reactionaries, you know. Of course she remains on speaking terms with me lest she miss something. You know?"

"I know."

Five minutes later, he got up out of the chair he'd held down for an hour. He roamed about, avoiding Lacey, and eventually he reached the circle of chairs under the blue umbrella. He stood for a minute, flipping his finger at the fringe, listening to the conversation, one bare heel lifting out of his moccasin, dropping into it again.

His eyes shone ever more brightly. Then- "That's so much rot!" he said clearly.

It was like dropping emery dust into the polished, whirring wheels of a fine French clock.

"Oh!" said the Club President.

Someone's chair grated on the bricks, a man growled roughly, another answered in agreement.

Mrs. Milburn's laughter tinkled off key. and Lacey put her hands to her throat.

Reprinted by permission of the publisher

Dodd, Mead & Co., Inc.