The old man lingered at the door.
"Who are you going to invite?" he asked—"You're not counting on me for men?"
"Oh, no!"—She spoke hurriedly, with a faint note of satire he knew full well—"But I'm counting on you for good champagne."
"H'm ... I see. But I always thought it didn't matter much at a dance—more quantity than quality."
"A popular mistake," said Helen, "or rather most unpopular! It's like this"—she explained—"we don't know many dancing-men—at least not of the kind I want! But it's quite easy nowadays. You ask people to make up parties. Only they're not your guests, you see, but friends of the people who dine and bring them; and they feel they can grumble openly at any flaw in the entertainment. So I want the arrangements and the wine—(it's more important than the food) to be quite—well, above suspicion. Then, you see," she smiled enigmatically, "the men will come again—by themselves."
Ebenezer's face grew red.
"I'd like to see them grumble here! Dash it all!—we make no charge—it's my hospitality."
He bristled visibly at the thought.
"That counts for nothing nowadays." Helen's voice was quite composed. "They come to enjoy themselves—for what they can get out of it! The only people who can give small parties and consider themselves the attraction are artists or Royalty. They can afford simplicity."
"H'm!—A pretty state of affairs. And what about Cydonia? You'd think any man would be proud to dance with my lovely girl."