As for Freda, she was now practically a visitor in Lockwood society. A few years before she had been a beautiful and popular debutante, with an influential father. She was now a university woman, and her people, though not so influential as before, were still definitely well considered. To-night she was merely an admittedly beautiful and acceptable young lady. Society was not keenly interested in her.
“I think,” said Mrs. Turnbull to Mrs. Squires, as they watched the dancing from the verandah, “that Miss MacDowell looks so graceful with Ted.”
“He knows a good dancer,” replied Mrs. Squires with a supercilious expression. “But you know, of course, that his mother, who is in New York, would scarcely approve if she were here.”
“Why not?” enquired Mrs. Turnbull, with the seriousness due to a most important issue.
“No reason, except that the MacDowell’s are scarcely—ah—what they were once, you know. And besides, I presume that Ted is expected to aim higher.”
“Is he serious about Freda MacDowell?” Mrs. Turnbull asked in surprise.
“He was once, my dear, and Mrs. Courtney is known to have cut Freda rather cruelly on several occasions.”
Freda, had she heard such remarks, would have been quite indifferent. The dance was the thing. It was the glory of movement and sound and color that charmed her. Courtney was but a means to an end—an impersonal partner who lived up to the character with his customary gentility. But Courtney was not quite impregnable. The intoxication of Freda’s proximity had been making inroads on his polite reserve, and gradually culminated in a little outburst as they stood alone on a deserted part of the verandah during a number.
“Girl, I love you!” he whispered passionately and tried to embrace her. But she pushed him back steadily.
“Ted, you do not,” she replied angrily. “You just imagine it, and I don’t like your arms on me, either! You may take me home, please!”