Vivian Sartoris offered no further remark.  Indeed she had drifted into a low-toned conversation with a young man on the fender.  Elinor Vanderwall was neither pretty nor rich, and she was unmarried at thirty-four, her social importance being further lessened by the fact that she had five sisters, all unmarried, too, except Anna, the oldest, whose son was in college.  Anna was Mrs. Prince; her wedding was only a long-ago memory now.  Georgiana, who came next, was a calm, plain woman of thirty-seven, interested in church work and organized charities.  Alice was musical and delicate.  Elinor was worldly, decisive, the social favorite among the sisters.  Jeanette was boyish and brisk, a splendid sportswoman, and Phyllis, at twenty-six, was still babyish and appealing, tiny in build, and full of feminine charms.

All five were good dancers, good tennis and golf players, good horsewomen, and good managers.  All five dressed well, talked well, and played excellent bridge.  The fact of their not marrying was an eternal mystery to their friends, to their wiry, nervous little father, and their large, fat, serene mother; perhaps to themselves as well.  They met life, as they saw it, with great cleverness, making it a rule to do little entertaining at home, where the preponderance of women was most notable, and refusing to accept invitations except singly.  The Vanderwall girls were rarely seen together; each had her pose and kept to it, each helped the others to maintain theirs in turn.  Alice’s music, Georgiana’s altruistic duties, these were matters of sacred family tradition, and if outsiders sometimes speculated as to the sisters’ sincerity, at least no Vanderwall ever betrayed another.  And despite their obvious handicaps, the five girls were regarded as social authorities, and their names were prominently displayed in newspaper accounts of all smart affairs.  While making a fine art of feminine friendships, they yet diffused a general impression of being involved in endless affairs of the heart.  They were much in demand to fill in bridge tables, to serve on club directorates, to amuse week-end parties, to be present at house weddings, and to remain with the family for the first blank day or two after the bride and groom were gone.

“Queer fellow, Breckenridge,” said George Pomeroy, old Peter’s nephew, a red-faced, florid, simple man of forty.

“Well, he never should have married as he did, it’s all in a mess,” a woman’s voice said lazily.  “Rachael’s extraordinary of course—­there’s no one quite like her.  But she wasn’t the woman for him.  Clarence wanted the little, clinging, adoring kind, who would put cracked ice on his forehead, and wish those bad saloonkeepers would stop drugging her dear big boy.  Rachael looks right through him; she doesn’t fight, she doesn’t care enough to fight.  She’s just supremely bored by his weakness and stupidity.  He isn’t big enough for her, either in goodness or badness.  I never knew what she married him for, and I don’t believe anyone else ever did!”