“Only yesterday! You live in Washington, now, don’t you?”
“Yes, off and on. It’s my headquarters for refitting and starting afresh. What do you say to a turn at the dansant?”
“I’m ready, I’m sure,” she replied. “Afterward we’ll—”
“Discuss other matters!” he interjected.
She gave him an amused look, and they passed down the corridor and up the marble steps to the elevator.
They were dancing the Maxixe when they entered.
“Do you mind if we don’t do it on the heels?” said she. “I think it’s prettier the other way.”
“So do I,” said he, and they drifted down the room.
He knew almost everyone on the floor; the women nodded to him, then stared coldly at his companion; the men too stared at her—but not coldly—and when they thought about it, which was seldom of late, nodded to him, and resumed their staring.
And Harleston did not wonder—indeed, had it been otherwise, it would have argued a sudden paucity of appreciation on the part of the smart set there assembled. For this slender young person in black, a small hat on her head, topping hair of flaming red, an exquisite figure and a charming pair of slender high-arched feet, was worth anyone’s staring, be it either coldly or with frank interest. And she did not seem to know it; which in this day of smug and blatant personal appreciation of one’s good points—feminine points—is something of a rarity in the sex. It may be, however that Madame X was fully aware of her beauty, but she was modest about it, or seemed to be; which amounts to the same thing.