Marion Sanderson was a patroness of the "Patricians," and to her efforts the innovations were, in a great measure, due. They had been coldly received at first, and when the changes culminated in champagne, some of the stricter members withdrew their names and refused permission to their daughters to attend, but the foundations of the Patricians had been too firmly laid to be shattered even by such defection.
Three evenings after the events of the last chapter the inviting French ball-room of the Hotel Mazarin was lighted for the first "Patricians'" dance of the season. The florist had arranged his last cluster, and the floor had received its last polishing; the dainty canary draperies were coquettishly caught up with garlands of flowers, while here and there slender palms cast their graceful shadows upon the shining floor, and white and gold woodwork peeped from behind smilax and roses. A row of waiting chairs around the room seemed to add to the stillness, which was broken only by the hollow, echoing steps of two managers who were taking a final glance at the preparations. Soon a jabbering of German, and the squeak of violins behind the gallery palms, announced the arrival of the orchestra, while down-stairs by the supper rooms the twang of a Hungarian cymballo proclaimed the presence of the Tzigan band. Chattering Frenchmen were scurrying about the tables putting on the finishing touches, and the usually suave and smirking maître d'hôtel was scolding an unfortunate "omnibus" hurrying upstairs with the punch glasses. "Dépêche toi, Gustave, ces gens vont venir à l'instant" he cried; but though an hour had passed since the time for which the guests were invited, the ball-room remained deserted.
Down-stairs a solitary woman sat quaking in the ladies' dressing-room, and her husband braved the patronizing glances of the servants in the hall. They were from a Western town, and both were wondering what nine o'clock on the invitation meant. For nearly another hour they sat there, and then the rustling of a satin dress announced the arrival of a patroness who had promised to come early to receive. Soon a few men straggled in, another patroness arrived, and finally a little knot of women who had collected in the dressing-room mustered sufficient courage to enter the great, empty ball-room. The orchestra struck up a Viennese waltz, a couple started to dance, and a few others followed their example. The fashionable hour had arrived; men, maidens and matrons crowded in, the room became quickly filled with a talking, laughing multitude; brilliant colors and bright smiles dispelled the gloom, and a giddy whirling mass of tulle and cheviot announced that the ball had opened.
Marion Sanderson was among the late arrivals. She had been unusually long at her toilette, but the time had been profitably spent, for when she entered the room her perfectly fitting gown of yellow satin and old lace produced an envious murmur among the women. Marion looked well at any time, but she was especially attractive in evening dress, for the lights and excitement seemed to produce an extra glow of beauty which few failed to notice. When she came, it was at the close of a dance, and a knot of men quickly formed around her, but Duncan was not of the number. She had expected to find him looking for her, and when she saw him near her, talking to her enemy, Mrs. McSeeney, she felt an unpleasant tinge of jealousy. After the excitement her entrance created had subsided, he came slowly toward her.
"I believe I have to thank you, Mr. Grahame," she said, giving him her hand, "for these beautiful yellow roses."
"On the contrary, it is I who must thank you for carrying them," he replied. "Besides, they are typical of jealousy."
"Jealousy," repeated Marion in a wondering tone. "Were you ever jealous?"
"A lover is always jealous," Duncan replied. Then he added gently: "I am a lover."
"Then all the world must love you," she said laughingly.
"I wish it did, for you are in the world," he answered.