“We are simply outclassed. Every man here thinks that all of us, like Mrs. Crane, could make our own gowns if only we were clever enough.”
“I have always thought,” said Thorndyke, smiling, “that Napoleon’s idea of the education of women was probably right—a plenty of religion and needle-work. However, as I may get myself in trouble, I will say no more.”
“Very properly,” replied Constance, who meant to enlighten Crane on his wife’s accomplishments. “I have a great deal of religion, when I am not annoyed by anything, and I beg all of the gentlemen to observe that even if I were clever enough to make a gown like Mrs. Crane’s, I could not wear it. It is too well adapted to Mrs. Crane’s style for any one else to venture on it.”
“I could have worn it thirty years ago,” said Mrs. Willoughby, with dangerous candour. “But the fact is, Miss Maitland, all of these men are so absurdly prejudiced in favour of the gown, that they overrate it. After all, the rest of us are fairly well-dressed.”
Annette took all this in the spirit of playful compliment in which it was meant, and was flattered by it. Not so Crane. He thought that Annette had, at first, let an ugly cat out of the bag, and secondly, that Mrs. Willoughby was insolent in saying the gown was overrated. But before the dinner was over, his eyes were opened to the fact that Annette had made a most agreeable impression, and every man present admired her, and every woman present liked her.
As soon as the rather short dinner was through, the carriages were called to take the party to the White House. When Crane and Annette were alone in their cab, he said to her:
“It seems to me you made a bad break in saying you made your gown yourself.”
“Far from it,” replied Annette, pleasantly. “It seems to have made them all like me better. Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Beekman both said they would be glad to call to see me, and so did the Admiral. I think I was a success.”
Crane felt like rubbing his eyes and pulling his ears. Was this his submissive Annette, who never questioned his word on any subject? He half expected her to call attention to the fact that he had been rather dull at the dinner, but although Annette knew it quite as well as he did, she forbore to mention it.
When they reached the White House, there was the usual crowd of carriages, their lamps twinkling like myriads of stars in the soft spring night, the roar of horses’ hoofs upon the asphalt, the crowds of gaily dressed women in evening-gowns disembarking at the north portico, the blare of music from the red-coated band within the corridors. Constance Maitland, on Sir Mark le Poer’s arm, and followed by her dinner-guests, presently found herself shaking hands with the President and bowing to the line of ladies of the Administration, which extended across the oval reception-room. Next the President’s wife stood the wife of the Secretary of State. She was a small, thin woman, with a determined nose and the general aspect of a mediæval battle-axe. She was simply though splendidly attired in black velvet, with lace and diamonds, and was as faultlessly correct as the Secretary himself, in language and deportment, except in one small particular—she could not pronounce the word “Something.” She invariably called it “su’thin”—a souvenir of her early bringing up on the banks of Lake Michigan. She greeted Constance coolly, remembering the meeting at her house for the Guild of Superannuated Governesses, but she was effusive toward Sir Mark le Poer.