Chapter 8

VIII.

IT was not Mrs. Vanderlyn's fault if, after her arrival, her
palace seemed to belong any less to the Lansings.

She arrived in a mood of such general benevolence that it was
impossible for Susy, when they finally found themselves alone,
to make her view even her own recent conduct in any but the most
benevolent light.

"I knew you'd be the veriest angel about it all, darling,
because I knew you'd understand me-- especially now," she
declared, her slim hands in Susy's, her big eyes (so like
Clarissa's) resplendent with past pleasures and future plans.

The expression of her confidence was unexpectedly distasteful to
Susy Lansing, who had never lent so cold an ear to such warm
avowals. She had always imagined that being happy one's self
made one--as Mrs. Vanderlyn appeared to assume --more tolerant
of the happiness of others, of however doubtful elements
composed; and she was almost ashamed of responding so languidly
to her friend's outpourings. But she herself had no desire to
confide her bliss to Ellie; and why should not Ellie observe a
similar reticence?

"It was all so perfect--you see, dearest, I was meant to be
happy," that lady continued, as if the possession of so unusual
a characteristic singled her out for special privileges.

Susy, with a certain sharpness, responded that she had always
supposed we all were.

"Oh, no, dearest: not governesses and mothers-in-law and
companions, and that sort of people. They wouldn't know how if
they tried. But you and I, darling--"

"Oh, I don't consider myself in any way exceptional," Susy
intervened. She longed to add: "Not in your way, at any
rate--" but a few minutes earlier Mrs. Vanderlyn had told her
that the palace was at her disposal for the rest of the summer,
and that she herself was only going to perch there--if they'd
let her!--long enough to gather up her things and start for St.
Moritz. The memory of this announcement had the effect of
curbing Susy's irony, and of making her shift the conversation
to the safer if scarcely less absorbing topic of the number of
day and evening dresses required for a season at St. Moritz.

As she listened to Mrs. Vanderlyn--no less eloquent on this
theme than on the other--Susy began to measure the gulf between
her past and present. "This is the life I used to lead; these
are the things I used to live for," she thought, as she stood
before the outspread glories of Mrs. Vanderlyn's wardrobe. Not
that she did not still care: she could not look at Ellie's
laces and silks and furs without picturing herself in them, and
wondering by what new miracle of management she could give
herself the air of being dressed by the same consummate artists.
But