Those black brows of his drew together in disapproval, because she had no right to be so rosy and happy, so much more voluptuous in her beauty than she had been when with Ralston Murray. Rosemary, however, seemed quite unconscious of Jim's disgust. She had an air of conquering, conscious charm, as if all the world must love and admire her—such an air as she had never worn in our experience. Having looked us over with calm admiration she marshalled her guests, and was especially charming to one of the women, a dark, glowing creature almost as beautiful as herself. Something within me whispered: "That's the woman she was jealous of! This party is meant to advertise that they're the best of friends."
"Guy, you're to sit next Mrs. Dupont," she directed; and at the sound of her voice my heart gave a little jump. There was a different quality about this voice—a contralto quality. It was heavier, richer, less flutelike than Rosemary's used to be.
Mrs. Dupont and Guy Brandreth passed us to reach their chairs. Guy was a square-jawed, rather ugly, but extremely masculine young man of a type intensely attractive to women.
"She wants to show everyone how she trusts him now!" I thought. "She's giving him Mrs. Dupont practically to himself for the evening."
All the party pushed by, Rosemary and an elderly man, who, it appeared, was Mr. Dupont, coming last. He sat between her and me, and they chatted together before the music began; but now and then she looked past him at me, without the slightest sign of embarrassment.
"Jim," I whispered, "it isn't Rosemary!"
"Well—I was wondering!" he answered. "But—it must be."
"It simply isn't," I insisted. "To-morrow I'm going to call on Mrs. Guy Brandreth."
"Supposing she won't see you?"
"She will," I said. "I shall ring her up early before she can possibly be out, and make an appointment."