"Oh, not all that, Jim! Lucy—that's the mother—and I used to visit like this when we were girls. It was done then," his wife replied with an air of equable amusement.
She added, "I rather think I did most of the visiting. I was awf'ly fond of Lucy."
"That's different. You'll have a total stranger on your hands. . . . Are you sure she speaks English?"
"Oh, dear yes, she speaks English—don't you remember her in Rome? She was the littlest one. All the children speak English, Lucy wrote, except Francisco who is 'very Italian,' which means he is a fascinating spendthrift like the father, I suppose. . . . I imagine," said Mrs. Blair, "that Lucy has not found life in a palace all a bed of roses."
"I remember the palace. . . . Warming pans!" said Mr. Blair grimly.
His ill-humor lasted until the first glimpse of Maria Angelina's slender figure, and the first glance of Maria Angelina's trustfully appealing eyes.
"Welcome to America," he said then very heartily, both his hands closing over the small fingers. "Welcome—very welcome, my dear."
And though Maria Angelina never knew it and Cousin Jane Blair never told, that was Maria Angelina's first American triumph.
Some nine hours afterwards a stoutish gentleman in gray and a thinnish lady in beige and a fragile looking girl in white wound their way from the outer to the inner circle of tables next the dancing floor of the Vandevoort.
The room was crowded with men in light serge and women in gay summer frocks; bright lights were shining under pink shades and sprays of pink flowers on every table were breathing a faint perfume into an air already impregnated with women's scents and heavy with odors of rich food. Now and then a saltish breeze stole through the draped windows on the sound but was instantly scattered by the vigor of the hidden, whirling fans.