They watched Mrs. Hubbell’s grace in silence, paying little attention to the others.
“They dance perfectly.”
“Perfectly,” agreed Mrs. Boyce. “Rose taught Jim to dance. Taught him other things too. He is her prize possession, you know.”
Horatia longed to cry out to this faintly smiling woman at her side, “He is my possession,” but she did not dare for fear of what it might lead to. And Mrs. Boyce went on:
“Of course Jim’s a romanticist. He’d stand by any woman whose name was connected with his and whom he dreamed that he might have hurt. But I’ve sometimes wondered if she hasn’t hoodwinked him a little about that whole affair. It may have been a pity that Jack Hubbell decided that he wouldn’t take it through the courts.”
“You are probably damning me for not minding my own business. Of course you are. But, my dear child, you’re no match for Rose. If you want Jim Langley, get him out of this crowd. It’s not much good. And it’s certainly not good for him. Rose Hubbell may not make men respect her but she doesn’t care.”
“Please,” begged Horatia and Kathleen waved Benedict to come and dance with her. Horatia expected that Jim would stop and join her but he kept on dancing. The illustrator was informally reading a magazine. She sat alone, with an odd sensation of being a wall-flower at a children’s party.
“Perhaps,” she thought, “my face is drawing down at the corners and soon my lip will quiver. I must look natural. There’s nothing to be silly about.” But for all that the forlorn little feeling persisted cruelly.
Then, just as she thought she could sit there no longer, and was trying to decide whether to break in on the illustrator’s reading or to go out into the other room, the music stopped and with the easiest grace in the world Langley and Rose both came towards her. Not in the least apologetic. Smiling at her gaily. No more hurt expression on Langley but a look of sheer enjoyment which made him look young and debonair.