She wondered why she didn't pack up and get out.
But she was still there another night when Felicity finally came home again with every lithe line of her body pulsing triumph. She was even sitting up, which was unusual. An unusual occurrence accounted for it.
In the beginning Felicity had tried to share with the other girl those prospects who, for one reason or another, were of no importance.
"Come on along," she often urged. "These guys mean nothing in my young life except a dinner. And you needn't worry. Believe me, you'll be shown the same respect as if you were out with your maiden aunt. They know I'm refined and won't stand for anything else. And it'll do you good."
Cecille did go, once. So far as her escort was concerned she found that Felicity had spoken the truth. He was innocuous. He was, indeed, quite entirely unaware of her presence most of the evening. That did not displease her. She found him little stupider than a swain of the same age might have been in her own home town, even though his name did appear in heavy block type in the Social Register. But she went only once. She made a mistake. She had that day helped to costume a sister of one of the men. She happened now to mention that sister's prettiness.
The man looked her in the eye, coldly, for a prolonged moment.
"Let's leave my sister out of it," he said at length deliberately.
And Cecille's cheeks were still pale from his tone when they arrived back at the apartment.
"That was a bad crack you made," Felicity told her then.
"I—I didn't know."