“Really? Do tell me what’s wrong. I’ve a very good doctor, you know.”
“It’s nothing, really. She has trouble with her head. I think it’s her head.”
“Migraine,” said Mrs Stevanson firmly, leading Heywood now into the drawing room. “I’ve been a martyr to it myself. You know,” and she lowered her voice, “I think it’s due to change of life.”
“Really, Helena!” Heywood was gently shocked. He made a restraining motion with his white limp hairless hand. “I’m sure she’s much too young for that.”
“Well, you never can tell,” said Mrs Stevanson who knew Mrs Heywood’s exact age.
“What a lot of people,” sighed Heywood. “So many people.”
“There are a lot,” said Mrs Stevanson proudly. “As usual I don’t know half of them.”
Carefully she cut Mr Heywood away from her, allowed him to float unprotected through the groups of people. He looked back at her sadly but she had no pity for him and, finally, a group of Wall Street people swallowed him up and she saw him no more.
Several people were entering the drawing room. They walked slowly with the carefully controlled uneasiness of people who didn’t know the hostess well.
She recognized one of the newcomers and she greeted him joyfully: Ulysses returned to Ithaca, as the small Greek named Timon might have said.