“I should say I did. They are all delightful, and your sister, Jack, is—well—”
“Which sister?” interrogated his friend, merrily.
“I actually do not know,” said Russell, shame-facedly. “But she wears blue and has a wreath of white roses.”
“That’s my sister Margaret. Do you know I always had an idea that you would hit it off with Margaret. She doesn’t let herself out to everybody by any means. But, Hubert, you might say one word for my own particular goddess—Agnes—who is the chief woman in the world for me, though I daren’t tell her so till I’m farther ahead in fortune.”
“Agnes? Which is she?” answered Russell, confusedly, conscious that he had given thought only to the companion of his talk in the committee-room.
“Stupid!” laughed Jack, pulled this way and that by people asking him questions. “There’s but one Agnes, as I said, and she—er—she wears blue.”
He was torn away by an imperative demand for the floor manager, and Russell felt relieved.
“I should not like to have confessed to him that neither of the others made the least impression upon my sensibility. I saw, of course, that there were two young females of pleasing but conventional exterior—that was all. Only the blindness of a brother could overlook the fact that Margaret is far and away the most distinguished, individual, high-bred, graceful, gracious, of the three. A man who has once spoken to Margaret would seek conversation with the other two only when he had absolutely no chance with Margaret.”
Russell stayed till daylight, looking in at the armory windows, drove the last dancers to withdraw. Poor Mrs. Benedict, yawning dismally behind the ostrich-feather fan, had to confess herself beaten by sheer fatigue. Walking stiffly out upon the arm of her son, she soon fell into the corner of her carriage, thanking heaven that Jack could by no possibility be again the floor manager of a Junior “Prom.” All around her limp figures were seen slinking into retreat. The most indefatigable of the dancers among the men revealed foreheads streaked with matted hair, staring eyes, shirt-fronts and collars flaccid for want of starch, buttonhole bouquets like crushed vegetables. Upon that stage of the annual festivity it were well to let fall a veil!
When Russell appeared at the carriage door to aid Jack in putting his family into their vehicle, a faint blush came into the clear pale cheeks of his companion in the talk of a few hours before.