"He says the French aristocracy has nothing on him, because his grandfather was one of the original Ten Ikes of New York."
A final crescendo of laughter, a last swishing of silks, a breath of perfume from the doorway and they were gone.
Within the room the two women sat looking at the closed door for a moment. Then Ella Morrissey turned to look at Sophy Gold just as Sophy Gold turned to look at Ella Morrissey.
"Well?" smiled Ella.
Sophy Gold smiled too—a mirthless, one-sided smile.
"I felt just like this once when I was a little girl. I went to a party, and all the other little girls had yellow curls. Maybe some of them had brown ones; but I only remember a maze of golden hair, and pink and blue sashes, and rosy cheeks, and ardent little boys, and the sureness of those little girls—their absolute faith in their power to enthrall, and in the perfection of their curls and sashes. I went home before the ice cream. And I love ice cream!"
Ella Morrissey's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Then the next time you're invited to a party you wait for the ice cream, girlie."
"Maybe I will," said Sophy Gold.
The party came two nights later. It was such a very modest affair that one would hardly call it that—least of all Max Tack, who had spent seventy-five dollars the night before in entertaining an important prospective buyer.