CHAPTER III
THE QUEEN WAS IN THE PARLOR
Stuyvesant was proud of his daughter––proud of her beauty, proud of her ability to dress, proud of her ability to spend money. She gave him about the only excuse he now had for continuing to hold his seat on the Stock Exchange. The girl was tall and dark and slender, and had an instinct for clothes that permitted her to follow the vagaries of fashion to their extremes with the assurance of a Parisienne, plus a certain Stuyvesant daring that was American. At dinner that night she wore, for Don’s benefit, a new French gown that made even him catch his breath. It was beautiful, but without her it would not have been beautiful. Undoubtedly its designer took that into account when he designed the gown.
The dinner was in every way a success, and a credit to the Stuyvesant chef––who, however, it must be said, seldom had the advantage of catering to a guest that had not lunched. Stuyvesant 21 was in a good humor, Mrs. Stuyvesant pleasantly negative as usual, and Frances radiant. Early in the evening Stuyvesant went off to his club for a game of bridge, and Mrs. Stuyvesant excused herself to write notes.
“I met Reggie Howland at the tea this afternoon,” said Frances. “He was very nice to me.”
“Why shouldn’t he be?” inquired Don.
“I rather thought you would come. Really, when one goes to all the bother of allowing one’s self to be engaged, the least one expects is a certain amount of attention from one’s fiancée.”
She was standing by the piano, and he went to her side and took her hand––the hand wearing the solitaire that had been his mother’s.