At half past five Archer rings at a peeling stucco house on West Twenty-third Street, a giant wisteria throttling its cast-iron balcony, among dressmakers, bird-stuffers and "people who wrote". He comes from a day spent in the Welland landau, rolling from one family doorstep to the next and feeling shown off "like a wild animal cunningly trapped", while Mrs Welland refuses to bring the wedding forward and works through the relations in alphabetical order. He has not told May of Ellen's summons. May wanted him to be kind to her cousin, he reasons, so he is free to call without saying so.
Ellen is out. A maid he takes for Sicilian leaves him alone in a low firelit room that Ellen has made, out of Medora's shabby hired house, into something he cannot name: a small Greek bronze, red damask nailed over the faded wallpaper, two Jacqueminot roses where anyone else would buy a dozen, a scent of Turkish coffee and ambergris. Archer, who prides himself on Italian art, cannot place her pictures. He tries to analyse the trick and finds himself picturing May's future drawing-room in a greenish-yellow house on East Thirty-ninth Street, where his imagination stops at the bay window. Then from the window he watches Julius Beaufort hand Ellen down from his brougham.
She shows no surprise at finding him. She calls her funny house heaven and the van der Luydens' home gloomy, and asks whether their great influence comes from making themselves so rare. At a stroke the van der Luydens collapse for him; he laughs and sacrifices them. She begs to be told what to do, but when he urges her to hold on to the older women, she answers that they help only on condition they hear nothing unpleasant. Does no one here want the truth, she asks, and sobs. He calls her Ellen, twice, and she does not notice.
The Duke walks in with Mrs Struthers, a loud lady in a black wig and red plumes, who invites Ellen to hear Sarasate on Sunday, and Ellen accepts with delight. Out in the wintry night New York grows vast again, and May is the loveliest woman in it. At the florist's Archer orders May's daily lilies-of-the-valley, forgotten that morning, then sees a cluster of sun-golden yellow roses too rich and strong to look like her. He has them boxed for the Countess Olenska, writes her name on a second envelope, then draws his card back out and leaves the envelope empty on the box.
Coming Up in Chapter 10
The next afternoon Archer persuades May to skip church and walk with him in the Park. The bare trees arch under a lapis lazuli sky above snow like splintered crystals, and May burns like a young maple in the frost, thanking him for the lilies that scent her room each morning.