ABSTRACT
Geraldine felt as if her mind had divided neatly into two compartments, one for thinking and one for receiving external impressions; and the connection between them had lapsed. Perhaps what she was hearing was luncheon conversation, peculiar to such occasions. Geraldine never went to formal lunches; they took all day, the hours she devoted to work. She had accepted Gina’s invitation as a temporary relief from herself, from the apartment, from the inertia which slackened her hand, stopped her working—when it was imperative that she should work. Mysie would be there; that was an inducement. But Mysie was at the other end of the table. It was a hen party, a dozen women, expensively dressed, massaged, marceled, into bright, earnest vacuity. They talked, in public voices, about parity and Hitler and subsistence farming. Geraldine found herself marooned between Mrs. Perry and a massive female in blue velvet and a lace tucker and Queen Mary hat, a museum piece, from Washington, who said we must stand behind the president. We must have confidence. Geraldine wondered, confidence in what? And how do you get it if you haven’t any—order it in packages? The lunch progressed through soup, creamed eggs, sweetbreads and broiled squab. Geraldine had had no appetite for days, and the sight of so much food was repulsive to her. She waited for coffee. Gina, at the head of the table, in pansy-blue crepe, addressed each guest in 182turn, with laborious tact. The white-paneled dining room was sterile and shut off, dedicated to this strange ritual.
