Helen patted the girl’s hand affectionately. “Well, dear, I’ll go to see your mother to-morrow. I’ll take her out for a drive. Then we can have a good talk together.”
Carrie Cora impulsively threw her arms around Helen’s neck. “Oh, Mrs. Briggs!” she cried. Then she drew back, ashamed. “It’s silly of me to act like this, isn’t it, before all these people? But I must go now. They’ll wonder what has happened to me. Good-night, dear Mrs. Briggs.”
During Helen’s talk with the girl Franklin West had appeared at the back of the hall with M. de Lange, whom he seemed to know. As soon as the girl disappeared the two men walked toward Helen.
The Frenchman drew his heels together and made another of his low bows, which West observed with the amused superiority of the American, scornful of decorative politeness.
“I have been waiting to say good-night, madame. Your reception, it is most beautiful! The flowers, the pretty women! Ah, you Americans, you are wonderful!”
West interposed coolly: “Well, we do things in pretty good style over here, that’s a fact.”
M. de Lange looked bewildered. Then his face shone.
“Ah, yes. It is—it is superbe. Such beautiful toilettes! And your women—they are so many—so——”
West threw back his head. “Yes, we certainly have a great many,” he said, with a laugh.
The bewildered look returned to the Frenchman’s face. “So many—so beautiful, I mean, so charming. And so many kinds! So different! Your Washington—it is a marvel.”