John Strange Winter

I wonder is there a woman in the world who is not touched by a gift of beautiful furs?

It was fortunate for Regina that she had been in the past accustomed to live her life a good deal to herself. An ordinary wife and mother who started out on a scheme of rejuvenation as elaborate as that of Mrs. Whittaker’s would find it extremely difficult to account for the hours which she would have to spend outside her own house. The ordinary young girl in decent society usually has to explain to her mother what she has done with her day, sometimes what she is going to do, and must generally gain permission for any expedition which she desires to make. I have known young girls who considered surveillance to be what they indignantly termed espionage, and I have known much heart burning, much kicking against the pricks from the girls of the family because they were not, like their brothers, free as the wind, to go where they listed. But I must tell my readers that the espionage of mothers over daughters is as nothing compared to the espionage of daughters over a popular mother.

In a certain household with which I am intimately acquainted, these are some scraps of conversation which may frequently be heard:

“Well, darling, where are you going to-day?”

“Oh, I’m going out and about; I want to go along the High Street, and then perhaps I’ll go to tea with So-and-So, and I half promised to go to Fuller’s to tea with such and such a boy. I’m not going far away. I shall be out and about. Why—do you want me?”

“Oh no, dear. Be in by dinner time.”

On the other hand, this is a scrap or conversation from the same family:

“Are you going out to-day, mother?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, I’m going out.”

“Yes, but where?” Then follows a string of questions—“What are you going to do? What are you going to get? What time shall you be in? Do you want me to go with you? Is daddy going with you?” and so on. The simple answer, “I’m going out and about,” or “I’m going for a walk,” would in no wise serve that mother. If she managed to slip out without her family knowing the exact details of her programme she would certainly have to explain how she had spent every minute of her time when she got home again. “Well, where did you go? Who did you see? Where did you have tea? How many teas did you have? Did you have a good time? Are you tired? Why didn’t you let me know you were going? I wanted to go with you.” These are only a few of the questions that this particular mother has to answer whenever she happens to go out without attendance; and I say lucky it was for Regina that she had early inculcated the liberty of the subject into the hearts of her daughters twain.

Just at first, after giving up public life, she had made a feeble effort to assert the ordinary rÔle of motherhood, but she had found herself brought sharply to a realization of her own principles, that she was free as air, to do as she liked, and that Julia had the same privileges as herself. Fortunate it was for Regina that it was so, for she was able to continue her work of regeneration, carried out on the most twentieth-century lines, without being hindered by objections and comments from her husband and daughters. For Julia was accustomed to spend her days among her own friends and to follow her own inclinations, and Regina had been for many years accustomed to come and go without hindrance or comment.

Now, at this time, she became almost too busy to worry about even the existence of the hussy. Twice a week she spent an hour at The Dressing-Room, having her hair brushed and kept beautiful. Twice a week she attended the salons of her beauty specialist, who did all manner of quaint things to her complexion, smoothing, washing, patting, kneading, dabbing, spraying, using electricity and washes, and employing various other modes of rendering her skin beautifully smooth. Then twice a week she attended the classes of a fashionable expert in physical culture, and at her bidding Regina, clad in black satin knickers and a white blouse, innocent of corsets or any other artificial means of making a figure, went through a series of antics, from blowing her nose scientifically to hopping about in attitudes suggestive of a gigantic frog—only that Regina grew less and less gigantic, and more and more approached to the proportions of her daughters. And then Regina took to learning the bicycle. Her modesty suggested that she should start on a machine with three wheels, but the professor of that art, who ran a show in Regent’s Park—well removed from Regina’s own domain—assured her that it was absurd for a person of her age and generally healthy aspect to begin on a machine that he would recommend to anyone old enough to be her mother. So Regina, with many misgivings, set out to learn the bicycle. She was not an easy pupil to teach, but there is no doubt that the nose blowing, hopping, rolling over and over on the floor, and going through the many exercises which the expert in physical culture ordained for her had given her a degree of lissomeness which she had never enjoyed in the whole course of her existence.

These pursuits necessitated her lunching in town every single day in the week, and, having some time still on her hands, she devoted one hour in the week to learning fencing, and then she joined a bridge class connected with her club. And truly she proved what marvelous changes an ordinary, stout, podgy, somewhat self-indulgent woman, getting near her half century, can make in herself if she chooses.

“Regina,” said Alfred, one evening when she came down to dinner wearing a bewitching little confection of silk and lace, which, if he had only known it, was called a coffee-coat, “my dear, are you still going to that doctor of yours?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Once a week, or so.”

“I feel very anxious about you.”

“But why, when I’m so well?”

“My dear girl, you are fading away, you are going to nothing, you are not as well covered as you were when we were married.”

“I am not skinny, Alfred!” said Regina, with dignity.

“Skinny! God forbid! But where are you going to stop?”

“In your heart, Alfred,” said Regina, looking at him very sweetly.

“But if you go on as you are at present, there won’t be anything of you left to stop!”

“Oh, you don’t understand. I had so given myself up to public life that I had let myself grow fat and ungainly, and I despised things that all women should think much of. But I have seen the error of my ways—and I feel as gay as a bird, as light as air. I only wish, dearest, that you would pay a little more attention to yourself.”

“I? Dear, dear, dear! You don’t mean to say that you want me to live on dog biscuits. I decline to do it, Regina, even to please you. I lead a busy life, although, thank God! I am able to make money. I often scamp my lunch—just taking anything that comes handy, but my good breakfast in the morning and my good dinner at night I insist upon having.”

“Oh, those good dinners!” said Regina, but she said it good-naturedly, and Alfred only laughed and began to serve the soup.

“Now try a little of this, Palestine soup—your favorite.”

“No, not soup, dear.”

“Why punish yourself? You are as thin as a match already.”

“Dr. Money-Berry warned me against soups.”

“Well, this once? I bought something for you to-day. Now, to please me you must have a little of this.”

“Very well.”

“Your sins shall be upon my head,” said Alfred.

“No, I will take my sins on my own shoulders,” said Regina.

It was not until the maid had left them alone that she asked him what the present was that he had bought for her that day.

“Ah, you wait till after dinner, old lady. I had the chance of buying something very nice at a quite reasonable price, and I took it, as I had to take it or leave it without any chance of consulting you. If you don’t like it you can hand it over to one of the girls.”

“I shall like it,” said Regina, and she asked no further questions.

It was after dinner, when they had retired to the pleasant drawing-room, that Alfred brought forth his purchase. It was a rather flat parcel, looking like a rather large cardboard box done up in brown paper. With masculine pride Alfred snipped the string, undid the wrappings and brought to view the cardboard box that Regina had expected. Within were more wrappings of tissue paper, and these undone disclosed a large tippet or stole and a big muff of the order usually called “granny,” made of the finest dark sables.

“Alfred!” cried Regina, all in a flutter.

“Ah, I thought you’d say that. No question of handing them over to the girls, eh?”

“I should think not indeed. Why, darling boy, you must have given a fortune for them.”

He slipped the tippet over her head and kissed her at the same time. “Not too much for you, Queenie, but they did cost, well, a penny or two, but it was a bargain all the same. Now, put your hands in the muff and look at yourself.”

“Oh, Alfred—oh, Alfred, you do love me?” said Regina.

“Love you! Ever have cause to doubt it?” he asked quite sharply.

Regina was almost choked by her emotion. The psychic moment had arrived for her to make her confession, to tell him all her doubts and fears, all her efforts to make herself lovely in his eyes. “My Alfred, my noble Alfred,” she exclaimed, flinging her arms round his neck and clasping the muff against his head. She was on the point of saying, “I have something to tell you,” but she hesitated, in a manner unusual with her, for a choice of words. In the rush of gratitude she almost let slip that she had something to confess when the door opened, and Maudie, followed by her husband, came into the room.

“Furs! Dark sables! Darling, daddy has been opening his heart to you.”

“Daddy’s heart is always open to me,” said Regina.