Across the room, three women seated at a table, were bowing and endeavoring to attract the attention of Geraldine’s party. Nell Thurston was the first to see them.
“Do any of you know any of them?” she asked. “They seem to know someone at this table.”
“Why yes, I do,” Josephine Wyeth answered quickly. “They are friends of mine from Baltimore. I know you will pardon me if I go over to their table for a few moments. Come with me, Rosebud, won’t you? Don’t you remember meeting Mrs. Powell, the time you motored to Baltimore with us?”
“I’ll say I do,” was Rosebud’s slangy reply. Slang for this one débutante was a favorite medium. “I’m keen for saying ‘hello’ to her. She sure is a bully little sport.”
Geraldine moved over next to Nell Thurston.
“You two keep on talking and forbear with us for a few moments,” she advised Elinor and Templeton. “I am anxious to discuss my idea for a new evening frock with Nell.”
As though the change had been prearranged between them, Templeton Druid threw a grateful glance at his old-time friend. She must have her own reasons for giving him this opportunity with the wealthy débutante, and he would make the most of it. He threw all the magnetism he possessed into his voice as he said:
“This is more than I had hoped for, Miss Benton—one little word with you. The gods must have heard my prayer. From the minute I first saw you, there was something I knew I must ask you. May I not hope to see you again?”
Elinor flushed, as she looked shyly up from the diagrams she was drawing on the table cloth with her fork. It was not the girl the others knew who only stammered, for once at a loss: “Why, I—I—oh I should so like to have you call, Mr. Druid, but I am just out, and my mother is—is—rather——”
“Please—” Templeton Druid looked just properly pained, and oh, such an unjustly misunderstood man,—“I understand perfectly. Your mother naturally would be particular with so charming a daughter, and a man in my profession——”