"Oh, you poor child. Well, you'll find we're not terrible in the least. Now, don't try to remember names. They'll remember yours—better than I did!"
Another small eddying circle formed about the luminaries from a lower sphere. This proved to be much like similar performances in any stratum of society. All murmured platitudes, or nothing. Nobody tried to be original or witty. Alexina and Aileen gradually disengaged themselves and were making their way toward the pictures that turned the four walls into a harmonious mass of color, when an old man came tottering up. He had bright, eyes and a pleasant face.
"Which is Mrs. Dwight?" he asked eagerly. Alexina bent her lofty head and smiled down upon him.
"Of course. Little Alexina. I remember you when you were a dear little girl and I used to see you playing about the house when I went up to have a good powwow with that clever grandfather of yours, Alex Groome—one of the ablest politicians this town ever had; and straight, damn straight."
"Alexander Groome was my father."
"Oh, no, he wasn't. He was your grandfather. You are the daughter … let me see … there were two or three young ladies…. I remember when they came out in the eighties … and a boy or two…."
"I am sorry to be rude, but Alexander Groome was my father. I came along rather late."
"Impossible! … Well, I suppose you know best…" and he drifted off.
"This seems to be a home for incurables," said Aileen. "I am sure I don't know how I shall get through the evening. Gora has a slight sense of humor, you have quite a keen one, but mine is positively fiendish…. Oh, Lord!"
Miss Halsey was trailing them, her hand resting lightly on the arm of another woman.