Rose Van Cortlandt had taken her under her wing the moment she had arrived and had kept her beside her, presenting her to dozens of people she had never heard of and who thought her lovely enough to hover around her, dressed as she was to-night in a simple white gown, without a jewel, a bunch of moss-roses held in a pale-blue sash at her waist. They asked her all about herself, her voice, the fascinating career she had entered. Smartly dressed men bent over her, swept their blasé gaze over her lithe, girlish figure, looked greedily into her frank, blue eyes, and paid her naïve little compliments out of ear-shot of their wives.
Sentences not at all meant for her small, rosy ears reached her, such as “Where’s the little girl? I must have a look at her again, old chap.” This from a tall, young Englishman to another of his race, who had already been presented to Sue three consecutive times—her simple answer, “I think we’ve met before,” and his “Rather,” not deterring him from a fourth opportunity. Women confided to each other: “Isn’t she a sweet little thing—and what a skin, my dear!” and agreed that Rose Van Cortlandt’s protégée was “simply fascinating—she earns her living, I’m told.”
To the young girl, frightened at first, flushed and sensitive, the glamour of all this had its effect. Little by little the fear in her heart subsided, the subtle intoxication of all this beauty, wealth, and luxury was even stronger. Her old courage came back to her. She felt that it was the opportunity of her life. She would do her best. She adored Rose Van Cortlandt. She had been kindness itself to her. Somehow she felt a strange happiness tingling through her veins. She felt like singing.
“Ah! I’ve a bone to pick with you, Rose,” laughed Lamont, striding up to his hostess, smiling and immaculate as usual.
“How dear of you to come, Pierre,” said she, grasping his hand.
“Think of it, Miss Preston,” continued Lamont, turning disconsolately to Sue, “this dear lady here absolutely forbade me to send the coupé for you to-night—wasn’t it selfish of her? There’s the coupé doing absolutely nothing—oh! I’m not discouraged. You’ll let me try again, won’t you?”
“Now, Pierre, don’t get peevish,” laughed his hostess. “What a spoiled infant you are. I sent for this little girl myself—didn’t I, deary?”
“It was so kind of you, Mrs. Van Cortlandt,” Sue replied. “You know I could just as well have taken the car.”
“No, you couldn’t have,” declared Lamont. “Not in that pretty dress of yours. What a filthy vehicle a street-car is, anyway. Have you ever stopped to think of the people you are obliged to sit next to—ugh!—or where they came from?—people who step all over you, and never think of begging your pardon. Do you realize that in America the middle classes have no manners whatever? It’s a fact. I assure you in France and Italy it is quite different. Even the most wretchedly poor are polite. It is as inborn as their religion. Then those untouchable nickels the conductor hands you in change.” His quick, black eyes noticed that Rose had turned to welcome the Jimmy Browns, and his voice sank almost to a pathetic whisper as he added hurriedly to Sue: “Do let me take you home to-night—please—won’t you?”
He looked at her tenderly, full into her blue eyes, his old skilful smile pleading for that hurried whispered “Yes,” which so many other women, failing to resist, had recklessly granted him.