“I’m so glad I’m going with you,” she whispered as they walked the few steps, he trying to shield her from the violence of the wind.
“Ah, yes,” he jibed, “it’s such a new thing, isn’t it, to be with me! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
The Harringtons’ house was certainly a change from the one they had left. Delicious warmth radiated from it as the ample doors unclosed to let the guests in; the crimson-shaded lights were reflected on the card tables and the polished floor, and laughing voices greeted the newcomers.
“You are late,” said the hostess, who was considered handsome, with heavy black eyebrows, dimples in her white, rounded cheeks, and a petulant expression. She wore a bunch of violets in the belt of her light blue gown. “You are late, but not so late as my husband. I expected him home to dinner, and he hasn’t come yet. It’s the way I’m always treated,” she pouted engagingly; “you other men will have to be very, very nice to me.”
She stared with public audacity into the eyes of the man nearest her, and then let her long black lashes sweep her cheek. It pleased her to pose as the attractive young married woman, and by tacit consent the suburban husbands were allowed by their wives to go through the motions of flirting with her.
Atterbury settled down to the strain of waiting. The company was composed of couples who saw each other daily, the men on the trains, the women in their small social rounds. Every event that happened in their little circle was common property, to be discussed by all. The evolution of Mrs. Oliver’s black spangled gown, the expensive house which the new doctor was erecting under the auspices of the Building Loan Association, Totty Jenkins’ stirring experiences in the kindergarten, and Mr. Waring’s sudden substitution of the seven-thirty-one morning train for the eight-fourteen, were subjects interspersed with, and of the same calibre, as discussions on the presidential candidate, the last new book, or affairs in Africa.
In spite of this pooling of interests, so to speak, the weekly gathering at the houses of different members always took on an aspect of novelty. Everyone dressed for the occasion, and there was usually a good game of cards, and a modest little supper afterwards, and the women met other men besides their husbands, and the men met each other and smoked after supper. The only real variety in the programme was that the simple and hearty friendliness beneath all this was more apparent at some houses than at others.
The Harringtons—somewhat new arrivals—were the confessedly rich people of the set, and the entertainments which they gave were characterized with a little more pomp and circumstance. Mrs. Harrington, for all her perfunctory belleship, was a lively and entertaining hostess. Everyone strove to make up to her for Harrington’s absence, and a particularly cordial spirit prevailed. It was always a secret trial to Agnes not to play cards at the same table as her husband in the progressive game, but to-night she did not mind, for his steel-blue eyes met hers in a kind, remembering glance whenever she looked for it, that spoke of a sweet and intimate companionship, with which outside events had nothing to do.
In one of the intermissions of the game Atterbury heard Henry Waring say to Nichols,
“Did you see the little item in one of the evening papers about that Western Company to whom Harrington sold his patent?”