"I've been lonely and left out at dozens of parties in London, where I didn't know a soul, and I never discovered that anyone was in the least concerned about me. At all events no one ever tried to ameliorate my lot."
"But you're a man, you know. . . ."
"A man can feel just as out of it as a woman. It's worse for him in fact, for it's nobody's business to look after him."
Eloquent spoke bitterly.
"But surely since you, yourself, have suffered, you ought to be the more sympathetic with that stout lady——"
"I will go, since you wish it; but I don't know her and she may think it impertinent. . . ."
"I'll come too," said Mary. "I don't know her but I can introduce you . . . we'll both go."
The lady in question was stout and rubicund, with smooth, tightly-braided brown hair, worn very flat and close to the head, and bright observant black eyes. She wore a high black satin dress, and had apparently been poured into it, so tight was it, so absolutely moulded to her form. A double gold chain was arranged over her ample bosom, and many bracelets decorated her fat wrists. She was quite alone on the raised red seat. For the last two hours Mary had noticed her sitting there, and that no one, apparently, ever spoke to, or came to sit by her.
There she remained placidly watching the dancers, her plump ungloved hands folded in her lap. She appeared rather cold for she wore no wrap, and what with draughts and the breeze created by the dancers, the tent was a chilly place to sit in.
Mary mounted the red baize step and sat down beside the solitary one.