As she entered the office a woman sitting at Horatia’s own desk, dangling a dry pen from lazy white-gloved fingers, looked up at her and then questioningly at Langley opposite.
She was a delicately blonde person with a close-fitting black hat, smartly trimmed with black paradise feathers and a French veil. The rest of her was in harmony with the black and pale yellow of her head. She looked—not faded—but cleverly artificial, as if created in the image of some lovely picture. Her face was raised in delicate expectancy for Langley’s move.
Horatia felt suddenly blundering. She was conscious of herself, awkward, and before she had time to collect herself Langley introduced her.
“Miss Grant—one of my colleagues on The Journal—Mrs. Hubbell.”
Horatia had guessed the identity of the lady before he spoke. She half-hesitated. But Mrs. Hubbell was in languorous command at once.
“I knew you must be working under stimulus, Jim,” she smiled.
Horatia felt affronted and bereft of repartee, but Langley inclined his head gravely.
“I am.”
Mrs. Hubbell waived that point and continued.
“I’ve just come back to town and I’m so eager to meet people. I’ve quite gotten out of touch. I have taken a little apartment in Hanover Street, Miss Grant, and I hope you’ll come to see me there. I can promise you tea, music and a place where gossiping women are absolutely not admitted—and only those can come who are above gossip or else tremendously gossiped about.” She smiled a little plaintively, thus delicately dealing with her own situation.