Bridget sprang to her feet, and with reckless haste began sweeping all her papers together.
“Do let’s talk about something else!” she cried, with sudden passion.
“Why haven’t any of your school-fellows asked you to their homes?” inquired her mother, querulously. “I daresay you were stupid enough to tell them who we are, and that’s why.”
“That is just the reason!” Bridget exclaimed, closing her lips tightly.
“Well!—of all—”
But Bridget had reached the open door. She ran upstairs to her room, and shut herself in.
Mrs. Ruan waited till she heard the bedroom door shut, and then broke into helpless tears.
CHAPTER III
The Jenkins party was at its height. The plush-covered chairs were all pushed back against the wall, leaving a sea of crimson carpet exposed, in the midst of which, like a solitary black island, stood a tall hat, into which Mr. Jenkins was endeavoring to throw cards. On the marble-topped chiffonier, in front of a glass-covered statuette of a fat little girl with an emaciated lamb, and a little boy in a white parian sailor suit teaching a dog to beg, there were plates of nuts, half oranges, and apples cut into quarters.
The light from the glass chandelier, with all its dangling irresponsible pendants, streamed down upon the kneeling form of Mr. Jenkins, and brilliantly illuminated the scene. A group of young men, among whom were a few girls in a chronic state of giggle, stood behind their host, applauding his skill, or making rash boasts about the brilliance shortly to be observed in their own performances, when he should have resigned his place. The rest of the company sat round the room on the plush-covered chairs. Most of the young men had congregated on one side, and the girls on the other.