“I hate dressing for a ball at this hour,” she said, rather breathlessly. “I don't feel half-dressed by midnight.”
Madeleine, in street costume, was behind her with a great box.
“She has something for my hair,” she explained. Her tone was nervous, but he was entirely unsuspicious.
“You don't mind if I don't go on to Page's, do you? I'm rather tired, and I ought to stay at the club as late as I can.”
“Of course not. I shall probably pick up some people, anyhow. Everybody is going on.”
In the car she chattered feverishly and he listened, lapsing into one of the silences which her talkative spells always enforced.
“What flowers are you having?” she asked, finally.
“White lilacs and pussy-willow. Did your orchids come?”
“Thanks, yes. But I'm not wearing them. My gown is flame color. They simply shrieked.”
“Flame color?”