“Have you heard of the dinner the Gleasons gave at which they separated the goats from the sheep?” asked Captain McLane. “They served Veuve Cliquot at one table, and American champagne at the other.”
“Oh, why do we put up with such ill-bred behavior?” cried Peggy, impulsively.
“My dear, you are wrong,” said Mrs. Macallister. “The Gleasons belong to a large class who show ‘the unconscious insolence of conscious wealth,’ as one of our statesmen aptly puts it.”
“Miss Gleason is very highly colored for a woman of her years,” said de Smirnoff, gravely.
“Highly colored!” exclaimed Mrs. Macallister. “It’s a wonder she doesn’t die of painter’s colic. Must you go?” as her guests rose from the table, and she walked with them into the drawing-room.
It was some few minutes before the other callers started on their way, and Dick listened with what patience he could muster to their interminable good-bys. But Peggy soon joined him in the drawing-room.
“Now, sir, give an account of yourself,” she said, with mock severity. “You haven’t been near me since the ball—” a sudden recollection caused her to blush hotly, and Dick thought what a lovely, dainty bit of femininity she was. Her shimmering crêpe de chine Princess dress of sapphire blue showed up her blonde beauty in a way to tantalize any man, let alone poor Dick, who was already hopelessly in the toils.
Dick promptly lost his head. “Peggy,” he stammered. “Dearest—be—”
“What are you two talking about?” asked Mrs. Macallister, coming suddenly back into the room.
“Er—nothing,” gasped Dick, who had a wholesome dread of incurring her displeasure. Having a very modest opinion of himself, he feared she would bitterly oppose his suit. “I was just going to ask Peggy about Alfred Clark and Beatrice Trevor. Was there ever anything between them, Peggy?”