“I don’t know how you can, Dicky,” she smiled at him forlornly. “I’ve got a bad black heart, and I play the wrong kind of games.”
“Well, I see through them, so it’s all right. What’s this about Nancy?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Betty said; “there she comes now.”
Nancy, stimulated by massage and steam, her hair dressed by a professional; powdered, and for the first time in her life rouged to hide the tell-tale absence of her natural quickening color, came forward to meet her guests in supreme unconsciousness of the pathos of the effect she had achieved. She was dressed in snowy white like a bride,—the only gown she had that was in keeping with the holiday decorations, and she moved a little clumsily, as if her brain had found itself suddenly in charge of an unfamiliar set of reflexes. Her lids drooped over burning eyes that had known no sleep for many nights, and every line and lineament of her face was stamped with pain.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said. Her voice, curiously, was the only natural thing about her. “I’ve been scouring off every vestige of my work-a-day self, and that takes time. Thank you for the roses, Dick, but the only flowers I could have worn with this color scheme would have been geraniums.”
“I’ll send you some geraniums to-morrow.”
“Don’t,” she said. “How do you do, Preston?”
She gave him a cold hand, and he stared at her almost as he had stared at Betty. He was a tall grave-looking youth, with Caroline’s straight features and olive coloring, and a shock of heavy blond hair.
“I hope you’ll like your party,” Nancy hurried on. “Gaspard is bursting with pride in it. I think it would be a nice thing to have him in and drink his health after the coffee. He would never forget the honor.”