“Did I not see you at the Cinderella?” she inquired in her judicial voice.
“Guilty!” admitted the stranger. “My cousin dragged me there, but I enjoyed it immensely. What ‘go’ there was about it!”
“Yes, it was a good dance,” agreed Mrs. Potter, “though one of the band had a fit, and the ice-cream ran short; but on the whole, everything was thoroughly well done.”
“And what heaps of dancing men and pretty women!”
“Yes, we were just about to discuss the beauties of the evening—‘present company always included!’” and Mrs. Potter glanced at Mrs. Belmont with her beautiful complexion, and then at Mrs. Wolfe with her animated, vivid face.
“Oh, pray don’t mind me,” protested Miss Payne, coolly accepting the implied compliment. “At forty I am past the beauty stage. Last night a worried-looking man rushed up to me and asked where he could find my daughter? Imagine such a question for a respectable English spinster!”
“I expect he took you for Mrs. Hastings,” suggested Mrs. Soames, “her hair is the same shade.”
“Well, I’ll make it my business to look out for Mrs. Hastings, and see myself as others see me. I must confess, if I had been endowed with a daughter, I’d have chosen that delightful vision in rose-coloured chiffon.”
“Oh, Miss Warren!” said Mrs. Potter with a sniff. “As it happens, she has no mother. Yes, she looked well enough, but her dress—an old one dyed—was too remarkable, especially as she danced with the same partner most of the evening!”
“Where was her chaperon?” inquired Miss Payne, as she helped herself to two lumps of sugar.