Mrs. Van Winkle's party that evening was no compromise. She had nailed her colors fast to the staff of fashion; and literature, save in her own fair person, was unrepresented. Mr. Sims, who stood on the borderland of the two worlds, and the young painter, Michael Angelo Brown, at present engaged on a portrait of Mrs. Van Winkle in the character of Diana, with a crescent on her head and a bow in her hand—these were the pinches of salt thrown in to flavor the social compound, with a regard to Miss Ballinger's appetite for something stronger than a fashionable soufflé. It is true that bright creature, Mrs. Siebel, was of the party, whose shrewd perceptions and ebullient sense of fun irradiated any circle. But then, in Mrs. Van Winkle's eyes, she was first of all a woman of fashion; only a delightful human being afterwards. For Sir Mordaunt, Mrs. Van Winkle felt herself to be feast enough; but with the happy confidence of a woman who fears no rivalry, she had selected two pretty units of the "Four Hundred" to add brilliancy to the entertainment. She looked unusually well herself, in pale blue velvet, with powdered hair, and pearls. When Grace remarked how much they became her, she whispered,
"Diamonds are getting so vulgar! Look at the poor dear princess. She is always like a badly-made blanc-mange, but to-night she looks as if she had been upset in a jeweller's window, and had got mixed up with the diamonds."
For the Princess Lamperti's ample white form was resplendent with jewels, two necklaces defining a waist which it would have taken a life-guardsman to encircle. Not wholly unlike a life-guardsman was Mr. George Ray, who was on her left, while the host sat between her and Miss Ballinger. He was a well-favored gentleman of fifty, with extremely good manners, and not much besides. The dinner was perfect, and the ingenuity with which it was colored gave rise to some amusement, of the thin, obvious kind which any one can enjoy. The table was covered with forget-me-nots growing out of moss, procured for Mrs. Van Winkle with infinite difficulty at this season. The candle-shades were pale blue; the bills of fare were printed, as were the names of the guests, on pale blue cards. Of course the menu began with Blue Point oysters. Then there was a Potage à la Mazarin, having an occult reference to the tint associated with the cardinal of that name. This was followed by Truites au bleu, and what Mrs. Van Winkle had christened "True-blue Fillets of Salmon." After that there came a compote of "blue-rock pigeons," and I know not what other birds of the air, and entrées of meat which had been re-christened for the nonce. In the second course there was a jelly of blueberries, I remember, and finally the menu closed with a fondu au cordon bleu.
On the other side of Grace was Mr. Sims. He fired his little shots alternately at the hostess, the princess, and other ladies across the table, breaking up the têtes-à-têtes with the laughter which followed his assaults.
"I never saw so becoming a 'fit of the blues' as your dress, Mrs. Van Winkle," he declared.
"It is quite too sweet of you to say so; you don't generally pay compliments."
"He would not have done so now but for the temptation of the pun," laughed Mrs. Siebel. "I wonder he did not get in something about 'blue stockings.'"
"It was an oversight," he replied, merrily. "Couldn't you have concocted a dish 'au bas-bleu,' Mrs. Van Winkle?"
"You don't suppose I did not think of it? My avoidance of that opprobrious term was deliberate. Literary women never understand the art of eating; I am the exception. With me it is a fine art. Observe the combination in this menu. The sequence of flavors is as delicately felt as the juxtaposition of colors on Titian's canvases."
"You mean it is a 'symphony in blue'?"