It was a penetrating wet cold as she rode down on the top of the crowded bus to have dinner with Figente. Were it not for that gnawing worry about Lucy everything would have been wonderful, not counting that other preoccupation, finding one's own true love. At the busy going home hour, when all bustle seemed eager preparation for the night, New York itself was a lover. The days at Hector's teemed with learning that made her wonder whether one ever could truly see oneself. There, misshapen old women surveyed their bedecked heads in the mirror, with faces softened at the beauty only they beheld, oblivious that often Hector could see their pants because of the way they sat, legs apart. His success was due to the confidence they felt in his half-man, half-woman judgment. Nature, she thought, is most cooperative. And also in teaching women the value of disguise depending upon the wish of men. A fascinating perpetual masquerade changing with whatever fashion of women was in demand. The demure; the cuddly; the extremely "smart"; the pal; the little girl; the "enigmatic"; the remote glamorous woman; the "lost soul"; and of course the current Green-Hat idol, dying for love, purity, pour le sport. But somewhere there must be a man who sees through all that and wants a friend as well as a mistress.
Figente was exasperated when she explained why Lucy hadn't been to see him. "You can't mean that clerk—pushing himself up in Palm Beach, that hallroom boy!" he snorted disdainfully.
"You're really a horrible snob," she protested in Lucy's defense, with a premonition that his description of Hugh Wickham was exact.
"Quite correct, I am. I think it too dreary of her to waste herself on a county offshoot when she could have had Nino or Nat Meiriman."
"She says she likes him because he is a disciplinarian, and she believes that is what she needs. I wonder whether I am not to blame." She looked at him stricken with what had occurred to her. "It was my idea to go see the Pergov demonstration last spring and I remember being surprised by her favorable reaction."
Figente's eyes glinted knowingly. "There are many ways to delight the flesh—and spirit. The multiplicities of pain—not only of the actual lash, but the imprisonment of—and then release of—desire by an imposed outer discipline—can become the most gratifying pleasure of all in those who have experienced only routine satisfactions."
