“They’ve got Mrs. Newbury down there. What do you think about her?”
The Colonel, who was reading through his glasses, looked up with a sharp glance of surprise and again down at the list, where his eyes stopped at the questioned name.
“Oh, strike her off,” he said. “What do you want her for?”
“She’s been here to see us,” Rosamund demurred, “and she asked us once to her house to hear somebody sing.”
“Why shouldn’t she come?” said June. “What is there about her you don’t like?”
“I didn’t say there was anything,” he answered in a tone of irritated impatience. “But she’s a good deal older than you, and—and—well, I guess it wouldn’t amuse her. She doesn’t dance. You don’t want to waste any invitations on people who may not come.”
Apparently this piece of masculine logic was to him conclusive, for he took his pencil and made a mark through the name.
The evening of the dance arrived, and long before midnight its success was assured. It was undoubtedly one of the most brilliant affairs of the winter. It seemed the last touch on the ascending fortunes of June and Rosamund. They had never looked so well. In her dress of shimmering white, which showed her polished shoulders, Rosamund was beautiful, and June, similarly garbed, looked, as some of the women guests remarked, “actually pretty.” As a hostess she danced little. Three times, however, Rosamund noticed her floating about the room encircled by the arm of Jerry Barclay. Other people noticed it too. But June, carried away by the excitement of the evening, was indifferent to the comment she might create. So was Barclay. He had drunk much champagne and felt defiant of the world. She felt defiant too, because she was so confidently happy.
By three the last guests had gone. Allen, hardly waiting for the door to slam on them, stumbled sleepily to bed, and June followed, a wearied sprite, bits of torn gauze trailing from her skirt, the wreath of jasmine blossoms she wore faded and broken, the starry flowers caught in her curls.
“Rosie, I’m too tired to stay up a minute longer,” she called from the stairs, catching a glimpse of the dismantled parlor with Rosamund, followed by a yawning Chinaman, turning out lights and locking windows.