Drewena studied the gown. As she saw it, the waist-line—the Grecian fashion in which the garment fell into the imperceptible folds of the long train, had the artless symmetry of certain sculpture. The dress was without sleeves, close-fitting, with high, pointed breasts, and with its back cut low, to the waist. Its color was a gentle pink of shaded salmon that blended into Carrie’s smooth bare arms. There were two golden bracelets on her wrists and two small bells on the ring-finger of her left hand. Following the soft curve of her throat was an exquisite, golden necklace. As she stood and turned in such a manner that her white back, with a tiny mole on the shoulder could be seen, Drewena put her arm around her waist, and pulled her aside, where they could talk alone.
Out in the hall, Carrie grasped the arm of her hostess.
“Will Martin be here to-night?” she asked almost shyly.
Drewena frowned.
“I don’t know, my dear,” she said at last, noting the child-like look of disappointment which appeared on Carrie’s face.
Inside the dressing room, which had been transformed into a powder room for the guests, a pompous creature was seated at the vanity. “Beulah” was a retired manufacturer with a great deal of money in the bank, but no penchant for spending it. In fact, she was known to drive the sharpest bargain for “trade” of any of her sisters, never carrying more than a quarter in her pocket when she cruised. Nor did her pick-up have to be presentable, for she worked the doughnut shift. “They’re all the same,” she used to say sententiously. “Just throw a sack over it, and shoo it out before dawn.... And never give them breakfast,” she would caution, if permitted. “It spoils them.” Whenever the fleet was in, she would go into retirement. She would lock all her doors and keep her butler on a kind of sentry duty, not even admitting a hallboy who might have an idle moment. As far as the fleet was concerned, no one quite understood Beulah’s strange reaction. But it was established fact that once, avoiding her usual care, she had sneaked away to the drugstore for a soda. Intent upon her guzzling, she had failed to notice a sailor who had sat down close beside her. But upon turning her head and seeing the man in uniform, Beulah had let out a shriek, her eyeballs had rolled upward and she had fainted dead away. Some said that doubtless it had been some frightful experience which had given her this strange allergy. “It must simply have put her in stitches!” one of her friends had observed.... As for the hallboys, it was true, she never paid them well; but there were always things to be picked up, and Beulah’s eyes were failing. The hallboys loved her for this little infirmity, and never took anything more than they felt was honestly due. Altogether, Beulah was regarded as a rather queer, but decidedly powerful person in her set; and no young debutante could expect a successful coming out unless Beulah was behind her—which she usually was.
Thus Drewena realized the value of this social contact for Carrie if the young girl was to spend much time in New York.
“You look awfully nice this evening, Beulah,” she said. “What are you doing out here all alone?”
“Powdering my face like mad,” Beulah answered, daintily packing the rich powder into the sore jaw and chin where she had shaved too closely. “Those faggots outside are dishing me to death. Just wait till I go in, though. They’ll stop their cackling!”