“There!” cried Grizel triumphantly, achieving a double chin in her effort to admire her own splendour. “Never say again that I don’t do you credit!”
The first part of the afternoon was spent pleasantly enough in strolling about the gardens, or in sitting down to watch the kaleidoscopic brilliance of the scene. At intervals Martin was hailed by a fellow-writer or club acquaintance, or Grizel by a friend from town, but Katrine was never so addressed. Other girls less attractive than herself flitted about with attendant cavaliers, or formed the centres of merry groups. What was the use of being “unnecessarily good-looking,” if no one were influenced thereby?
Across the sunshine of the scene shot grey shadows of depression. In the midst of a crowd one could be so horribly alone! Among the hundreds of guests crowding the green lawn, not one cared to pause by her side. Even Martin and Grizel.—It was a hateful thought, Katrine fought against it, but her heart acknowledged its truth,—they would be happier without her! It was inevitable that the mind should leap to the remembrance of the one man who would have cared; who, entering by those great gates, would have come swiftly forward, unsatisfied, unseeing, till he had gained her side!
Across the intervening miles went out a warm, glad thought: “He would have cared!” said Katrine’s heart, and at the thought the sun shone again.
“Excuse me one moment!” cried Martin hurriedly. “That man over there.—I’ve been wanting to catch him for months...”
He darted across the lawn, and the two girls subsided into chairs, afraid to leave the spot, lest in the crowd he might not be able to find them on his return. Already Grizel was looking tired and spent; the little face beneath the sweeping hat was white as a tired rose, but the whimsical light shone bright as ever in the golden eyes as she turned them on the passing throng, and from her lips bubbled an endless stream of nonsense. It was difficult for a listener to preserve a due decorum of manner as each group passed by, heralded by biographical sketches in those low, rich tones.
”—Aunt Hepsibah and her niece Jane... County family. Redooced, but proud. ‘A lace shawl,’ says Auntie, ‘is always le mode! And Jane shall wear my bertha.’ ... Mrs Ponsonby de Tompkins. Left cards regularly for years past, angling for an invitation, and at long last one arrived. A handsome new dress for the occasion! The very best satin, and everything to match, Husband excepted! Ponsonby wishes to goodness he’d never come! ... Rich Mr Stock-broker on the point of proposing to Emily Maud. Emily’ll have him. Observe the smirk! I always refuse men who propose to me at garden parties... Ha! whom have we here? Looks like a Duchess, but probably is not. Old lady in puce probably is, and has no right to be... Long-haired pus-son probably an Anabaptist, or a Poet, or something of that ilk.”
“It’s all very well, but I want to know!” objected Katrine in tones of strong disapproval. “It’s the dullest thing in the world to be surrounded by celebrities, and not to recognise a single one. Martin goes about so little that he is no use as a guide. The dozens and dozens of interesting invitations which he has refused these last years! I think he might introduce us to some of his friends who do know! It’s the literary people who interest me most. And the artists. It’s too tiresome!”
“Keep calm, Sweet One! We’ll ask him when he comes back, and,” Grizel smiled, a slow, sweet smile, “I might know one or two myself! If we sit here patiently, some one is sure to pass. I’ll keep a bright look-out.”
“Oh, do! Yes, of course, you meet all kinds of people. I’ve lived in a rut. Grizel, do you know, I’m getting tired!”