“I don’t mind,” said Croyden. “They may think what they please—and Mattison’s venom is sprinkled so indiscriminately it doesn’t hurt. Everyone comes in for a dose.” 128
They dallied through dinner, and finished at the same time as the Westons. Croyden walked out with Miss Cavendish.
“I couldn’t help overhearing that remark of Mattison’s—the beggar intended that I should,” said he—“and I want to thank you, Elaine, for your ‘come back’ at him.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come back harder,” said she.
“And if you prefer me not to go with you to the Hop to-night don’t hesitate to say so—I’ll understand, perfectly. The Westons may have got a wrong impression——”
“The Westons haven’t ridden in the same motor, from Washington to Annapolis, with Montecute for nothing; but I’ll set you straight, never fear. We are going over in the car—there is room for you both, and Mrs. Weston expects you. We will be down at nine. It’s the fashion to go early, here, it seems.”
Zimmerman was swinging his red-coated military band through a dreamy, sensuous waltz, as they entered the gymnasium, where the Hops, at the Naval Academy, are held. The bareness of the huge room was gone entirely—concealed by flags and bunting, which hung in brilliant festoons from the galleries and the roof. Myriads of variegated lights flashed back the glitter of epaulet and the gleam of white shoulders, with, here and there, the black of the civilian looking 129 strangely incongruous amid the throng that danced itself into a very kaleidoscope of color.
The Secretary was a very ordinary man, who had a place in the Cabinet as a reward for political deeds done, and to be done. He represented a State machine, nothing more. Quality, temperament, fitness, poise had nothing to do with his selection. His wife was his equivalent, though, superficially, she appeared to better advantage, thanks to a Parisian modiste with exquisite taste, and her fond husband’s bottomless bank account.
Having passed the receiving line, the Westons held a small reception of their own. The Admiral was still upon the active list, with four years of service ahead of him. He was to be the next Aide on Personnel, the knowing ones said, and the orders were being looked for every day. Therefore he was decidedly a personage to tie to—more important even than the Secretary, himself, who was a mere figurehead in the Department. And the officers—and their wives, too, if they were married—crowded around the Westons, fairly walking over one another in their efforts to be noticed.
“What’s the meaning of it?” Croyden asked Miss Cavendish as they joined the dancing throng. “Are the Westons so amazingly popular?”