There was the faintest little smile, the smallest hush. Mrs. Longstreet’s eyebrows went up and then down,—her only signal of lack of equilibrium. Then she rose and the company followed. Only in that instant Cecily had seen Dick’s angry glance and the cruel flush that had risen on the face of Fliss. It delighted her to see that the blow had gone home. Then an acute sense of degradation swallowed up her delight.
Dick did not claim her for the first dance. It was Fliss he danced with. When he did come to his wife, he looked at her with his eyes still angry. “Dance this, Cecily?”
“Where did you learn that raw stuff?” he asked after they had been around the floor silently.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. That was a pretty raw attack on Fliss.”
“Attack was what I said.”
“You mean when I mentioned to Fliss that her cousin couldn’t come to cook. I hadn’t told you, had I, that Ellen was a cousin of the Hortons’.”
“I can’t see that it is of much consequence whether she is or not, but you knew how a lot of those people at dinner would make capital of it. It was a deliberate attempt to hurt her. I can’t see why you should do such a thing.”
“You ought to know why,” said Cecily. “You ought to know why. Because that woman is dangerous. Because she’s unworthy. She was flirting with you and with Gordon Ames—she was acting like a bad woman—leaning on you.”