IN VANITY FAIR

She Wondered Why the Boys Wouldn't Dance With Her Until A Little Child Told Her

MILDRED HENDERSON had always been a conscientious girl and fond of a good time with the opposite sex. Even in High School she had loved birds and flowers and all sorts of things that grew. And when it came time for her to wear long dresses, she was secretly rather glad and hoped that now Nelson Graves or Don Shepard would play nicely with her instead of throwing those horrid tomato soup cans at her whenever they saw her and, sometimes, big cans, like syrup comes in, and rocks and monkey-wrenches and tire-tools.

Mildred never could understand what it was about her that made men run for the pyrene whenever she came into a ballroom. Mildred loved to dance and she danced well, too, with a pretty little kick at the end of each third step which showed off her one trim ankle to perfect advantage and with just the right amount of feminine appeal. One would surely have thought that Charley Fagan with his silky moustache and his Overland automobile would have been attracted by such a nice girl.

BUT somehow Charley seemed to wish to avoid Mildred. At first she was not sure. But one night he had asked Mildred if she would mind getting out of the car for a minute to feel the radiator cap, as he thought that perhaps the water in the radiator was boiling—and then, while Mildred was standing in front of the car, he had started full speed ahead and had run over her and never came back—well, Mildred could take a hint as well as the next girl, even if it did hurt; and so when she had recovered consciousness the next morning, she had picked herself up and walked proudly home alone and had never spoken of love or anything else to Charley again, except at large formal parties when he was wearing his full dress suit and any apparent rudeness on his part would have been embarrassing to the hostess.

And then there had been Bob Carter, fullback on the famous Harvard "eleven" of 1923. Bob was Mildred's cousin, But cousins often marry each other without any bad effects which can't be corrected by glasses, and so when Bob came to Indianapolis one Christmas with the Harvard Banjo and Mandolin Clubs, Mildred took particular pains to be nice to him. But as soon as he had met Mildred, Bob had begun to drink; and instead of dancing all evening with Mildred (as she had hoped) he had gone to sleep in the Locker Room at the Country Club, which distressed Mildred very much and made her wonder all the more what it was about her that made men dance with the other girls instead of with her.

Mildred's mother had not been that way. Men had always seemed to like her even before her marriage to wealthy Mr. Frank Henderson, president of the Henderson Bolt and Washer Company, and she had always been popular with the "bunch", as they called the leading debutantes and beaux of her social set in South Bend. Indeed, when she was a girl it was common gossip of the town that Nellie Ossip could marry when and whom she chose, and it had been no great surprise that she had captured the heart and hand of cosmopolitan Frank Henderson of Indianapolis. And you can imagine that it now hurt her pride considerably (although she never said a word on the subject) to see that her daughter Mildred was still unmarried, even though Mildred had visited all her college classmates in almost every state in the union. Men just didn't seem to take to Mildred - but she didn't know why.

Mildred's grandmother had not been that way, either. "Born in a covered wagon on the Fourth of July, Chastity Betts (or "Chassie", as they called her) had gone on from there to ever greater triumphs over the genus male; and even now at the age of ninety-six, "Chassie" had a certain amount of sex appeal (except on days when her rheumatism was bad); and indeed she had been, only recently, indirectly responsible for the dismissal of two icemen and a Gas Inspector who had been caught by Mr. Henderson chasing the old lady along the rainwater troughs on the upstairs roof. But men didn't seem to take to her granddaughter Mildred—and she didn't know why.

AND then, one day, Mildred found out. A little child told her.

It was the day of the Simpsons' dinner party and all afternoon Mildred had been in a fever of excitement because Mrs. Simpson had told her that she was going to seat her next to Murray Smith, the popular capitalist and crack polo player from Dayton, Ohio. Mildred had never met Mr. Smith socially, although she had once been hit very hard in the head at Miami by a polo ball; and she was very anxious for the evening to come.

Promptly at seven she presented herself at the door of her hostess, prettily arrayed, in her best frock; and while she was waiting in the drawingroom for the other guests and her hostess to arrive (for Mildred had come an hour early in order not to miss a minute of conversation with Mr. Smith) she kept looking in the mirror and wondering if tonight was to be the night.

"I wonder if tonight will be the night," she said.

And when Mr. Smith finally did come, the conversation began quite auspiciously for Mildred.

"Oh, Mr. Smith," she said, "I've heard so much about you."

"Is that so?" replied Mr. Smith.

"I just love polo," said Mildred.

"Is that so?" replied Mr. Smith.

"And I hear you've just come back from Paris," said Mildred.

"Yes," said Mr. Smith.

"Don't you just love the Eiffel Tower?" said Mildred, who had been to Paris herself and had seen the Louvre and Notre Dame.

AND then, just as she was apparently getting on so nicely with Mr. Smith, it happened. Mildred found out what it was that was keeping her back while other girls were forging ahead.

"Pardon me," said Mrs. Simpson, the hostess, interrupting Mildred's tete-a-tete. "I want you to meet my little daughter, Alice, Mr. Smith."

"How do you do, Alice?" said Mr. Smith, "How old are you?"

"Nine," replied Alice, "I hear that you have just been to Paris."

"Yes," replied Mr. Smith.

"How was the Picasso show at Paul Rosenberg's?" asked little Alice.

"Fine!" replied Mr. Smith. "Do you like Picasso?"

"In his latest work—yes," replied Alice. "He seems to have more to say than the others—although I am very fond of Braque and Leger and Brancusi and Marie Laurencin. Tell me—how did the CocteauStravinski ballet go at the Champs Elysees?"

"Le Train Bleu?" asked Mr. Smith.

"Of course," replied Alice. "Oh, Stravinski—Stravinski—there is a man! He and Irving Berlin. Have you read Cocteau's latest poems? And I hear James Joyce is working again. What did you think of Ulysses? Didn't you adore those last fifty pages? That part where—."

"Come," said Mr. Smith, "let us go into dinner and discuss all this."

And so, before the very eyes of the disconsolate Mildred, little Alice took Mr. Smith's arm and they walked away.

Once more the horrible thing had happened. Once more she had seen the man she loved desert her for another, apparently no more attractive than she.

And then kind Mrs. Simpson, more frank than the rest, told her.

"Little Alice gets all her dope," she whispered, "from Vanity Fair."

DONALD OGDEN STEWART