Skinny Island by Louis Auchincloss

of God, even
her
God. The only reason that I allowed you to requst an invitation for me to the reception was to see if you could stand up to them."
    "Them? Don't you mean her?"
    "Certainly not. I mean her
and
her daughter. I mean the women. The women of your world."
    "They're very fine women," Griswold insisted.
    "Fine is not an exact term. They know they're engaged in a war, and you don't."
    "Oh, a war, Atalanta, really!"
    "Really," she echoed him grimly. "Because you and I have become friends, I decided to help you. To rescue you, before it was too late. Listen to me, Griswold. Put your prejudices in the corner for a minute and listen to me. Don't worry. I'll give them back to you. Almost intact." Atalanta paused now as if to decide how best to proceed. Then she nodded. "Let us start with your grandmother. My predecessor. I have learned what I could about her. She was like all the wives of the financial pioneers. Simple, religious, awed by her dominating husband, awkward in society, nostalgic for the day when she did the sewing and helped the maid-of-all-work. She learned not to wince when her more sophisticated children found her gauche. She consoled herself in church work. But her hidden resentment was passed on to her daughters and daughters-in-law.
They
were determined that her fate would not be theirs. Their tool would be society. With palaces and parties, they would shackle the weaker sons and grandsons of the tycoons. In golden chains! And how they've done it! Look at your father. Look at Ione's uncles. The wife's revenge was castration!"
    "Atalanta!" Griswold jumped to his feet in horror.
    "I wanted to save you," she continued imperturbably. "But now I am very much afraid it's too late. I can only look into the future and see what I can see. Sit down again, dear boy, and hold my hand."
    Griswold sat beside her and held that large cold hand in both of his. Atalanta closed her eyes and was silent for two minutes. It seemed much longer. When she spoke, her eyes still closed, it was in a slow monotone.
    "Let the years pass. Many years. I see you in an office. You will not have to work, but it will get you out of the house, which will be Ione's domain. I see you lunching with your friends and planning fishing and hunting trips. I do not see you indulging in furtive adulteries."
    "Thanks," he breathed.
    "But at times you may regret your fidelity."
    "Please, Atalanta!"
    "Hush!" She opened her eyes to look at him blankly and closed them again. "Ah, yes,
now
I see. You are sitting in a club in the late afternoon, having come there from the office—you come there every afternoon. You are tired, and you hope you can dine there with old friends over gin and fishing stories. You hope it is not a night when your wife is entertaining. Then the butler always calls the club at six to tell you to be home in time to dress, and you know when this has happened because you see a page crossing the floor towards you carrying a small silver tray with a message. Oh, yes, you are weary. You are praying this night will be a free one and that you can relax behind the high walls of your sanctuary. You think the dread moment is safely past and you are raising the ice-cold gin to your thirsty lips ... oh, what heaven!...But no, now you observe the spot of red in the big doorway, and it grows before your tired eyes into the form of the page, and you see that he is carrying a small silver tray, and yes—"
    "Atalanta! I'm leaving!"

    He and lone stood in the library before the long trestle tables with the presents. He was very grave, but she was smiling, a bit oddly.
    "
Say
it, Gris, darling! Say what's on your mind."
    "If I can't have my grandfather's widow at my wedding reception, I don't want anybody there!"
    She nodded, considering it. "I can see that. Yes, I think I can see that."
    "Would you marry me without a wedding reception? Now? Or next week?" He could hardly believe it when she did not scream. "Oh, darling,
would
you?"
    "That's