“I didn’t keep a dance, Dick, because,” she lowered her voice, “I—I—thought you would prefer to take me out to supper.”
“You darling!” Dick leaned impulsively nearer; then cursed inwardly as Tom Blake’s stout form stopped before them.
“Well, you two look very ‘comfy’; may I join you?” The chair, which Peggy pushed toward him creaked under his weight. “This is a bully alcove; you are in the crowd and yet not of it. Hello, de Morny, come and sit with us. Miss Macallister was just asking for you,” and he winked at Dick.
De Morny was walking past, vainly searching for Peggy, and he accepted the invitation with alacrity. He had met her early in the season. Her sunny disposition and fascinating personality had made instant appeal to the Frenchman’s volatile nature. Wherever Peggy went, de Morny was sure to follow, much to Dick’s silent fury.
Their mutual friends had not been slow to grasp the situation, and many were the conjectures as to which man would win the little flirt, and, incidentally, the Macallister millions. The money consideration did not enter altogether into de Morny’s calculations, for contrary to the usual order of things, he was wealthy. Belonging to the old nobility of France, he was a most desirable parti, and had often been relentlessly pursued by mothers with marriageable daughters on their hands.
But many times Dick cursed Peggy’s prospective inheritance. Without a penny except his salary, it was bitter indeed to the proud fellow to feel that he was looked upon as a fortune hunter. They had been boy and girl sweethearts when their parents had lived next door to each other until the crash came. His father gave up home and personal belongings to meet his creditors, dying shortly after, and Dick had been thrown on his own resources during his freshman year at Harvard. It was simply another case of from shirt sleeves to shirt sleeves in three generations, no uncommon occurrence in America.
“Mademoiselle,” said the Frenchman, bowing before Peggy, “have I zer permission to present to you mon ami, Count de Smirnoff.” He beckoned to a tall stranger who had stopped just outside the alcove when de Morny joined the little group. “And to you, also, Monsieur Blake, and Monsieur Tillinghast.”
Count de Smirnoff acknowledged the introductions most courteously, and then, to Dick’s secret annoyance, promptly appropriated the chair nearest Peggy and devoted himself to her.
“Will you look at Mrs. Wheeler,” whispered Tom Blake to his companions. “Solomon in all his glory couldn’t touch her.”
Mrs. Wheeler was dazzling to behold. Dressed in scarlet and gold, with diamonds in front of her, diamonds on top of her, she easily out-diamonded every woman present. The crowd parted to make way for her as she moved slowly, very slowly up the long room. With the Vice-President on one side of her and the British Ambassador on the other, the apotheosis of the house of Wheeler was reached.