“There! It was worth the risk to get the compliment!” the older woman laughed back; “and your husband, he looked most distinguished to-night, and those dear children—I saw them in the park! Be good, my child, and you’ll be happy!” and she smiled complacently at the axiom as she moved away, a figure of ancient gayety in tight shoes and costly stays. An hour later when her maid had taken her to pieces, she presented a spectacle at once instructive and amazing.
Following Mrs. O’Neal’s exit, the accepted signal for departure, Margaret’s guests began to flow past her in a steady stream, stopping a moment for the individual farewells or congratulations on the pleasures of a brilliant evening. She was standing just inside the ballroom door alone, for White had been summoned unexpectedly to the White House a half-hour previously, his departure adding to the zest of gossip and speculation upon the political situation. Margaret’s slim figure in its shimmering dress, her animated face, the peculiar charm of her smile, had never been more observed; she was beautiful. Those who had questioned it, those who had been only half convinced and those who had denied it, were alike overwhelmed with its manifestation. It seemed as if the intangibility of her much disputed charm had vanished and her beauty had taken a visible shape, was crystallized and purified by some fervent emotion which made her spirit illuminate it as the light shines through an alabaster lamp.
One by one they pressed her hand and passed on, feeling the inspiration of her glance; one white haired diplomat bent gracefully and kissed her fingers, an involuntary tribute which brought a faint blush to her cheek.
Fox was among the last to approach, and as he did so she stopped him with a slight but imperative gesture. “Stay a moment, William,” she murmured, with almost a look of appeal, “I want to speak to you.”
Thus admonished he turned back, conscious that by so doing he startled a glance of comprehension in the eyes of Louis Berkman, who was following him, which annoyed him for Margaret’s sake. He went over to the fireplace and stood watching the falling embers while the remaining guests made their adieux, then as the rustle and murmur of their departure grew more distant and lost itself in the rooms beyond, he turned and saw her coming down the long room alone and was startled by the extreme youthfulness and fragility of her appearance, and by the discovery, which came to him with the shock of surprise, that her radiant aspect had slipped from her with her departing guests, that her face was colorless and pinched, though her eyes were still feverishly bright.
“It was good of you to stay,” she said, coming to the fire and holding out her hands to the blaze; “how cold it is for the first of April. Sit down, William, and let me send for wine and cigarettes; you look tired.”
He raised a deprecating hand. “No more hospitality,” he said firmly; “you’ve done enough; you’ve lost all your color now.”
“Except what I put on with a brush,” she said dryly, clasping her hands and letting her long white arms hang down before her as she looked across at him with a keen glance. “I know—you’ve eaten nothing here since Wicklow broke his word and the rest of it. You won’t eat his bread!”
Fox colored. “Should I be here in that case?” he asked.
She shook her head, glancing at the fire. “You can’t fool me—I understand.”