Without a word Julie Van Ostade had shouted, "Cast-off clothes!" louder than the raucous dealers of the curb.
Luckily, the ghastly business was not prolonged. The leave-takings began at once, and Jean passed out among the first. Some hitch in the carriage arrangements delayed her a moment in the vestibule, however, and MacGregor came by.
"Did something happen back there?" he asked bluntly. "I don't think the others noticed anything; I didn't grasp anything tangible myself; but still—are the honors doubtful, after all?"
Jean shook her head.
"No," she answered grimly; "not doubtful in the least. She won."
Then Craig put her in the coupé, and asked if it had not been a jolly evening.
"It was a mixed crowd for Julie," he said, "but it seems she wanted to show you all sorts. You see how absurd it was to dread coming. Every time I laid eyes on you, you were holding your own. Virginia Hepworth asked who you were. Did you notice her? I want you to know her. You mightn't think it at first blush, but she's very stimulating; at least I always find her so. We had a famous powwow. I should like to paint her sometime against a sumptuous background. What did you think of her hair?"
Jean's response was incoherent. Then an illuminated turning brought her face sharply from the shadows.
"Jean!" he cried. "What is it? What's wrong?"