Only two or three of the men were in evening dress. The girls for the most part wore much starched summer muslins, high at the neck and long in the sleeves. Some of them had put on their winter best gowns, and attempted to give the “evening” touch by bows of heliotrope or pink chiffon, light gloves, and hair bound with a colored ribbon.
Mrs. Jenkins, a fat comfortable lady in black silk, with an écru lace cap, sat in an arm-chair, alternately beaming upon the young people and applauding “papa’s” lucky shots.
“Carrie, dear, won’t you give us a song?” she begged presently. “That pretty new one of yours—what is it? I never can remember.”
“Oh, lor, ma! How many times am I to tell you it’s as old as the hills! She means ‘Queen of my Heart,’” said Carrie, turning to the girl next her. “Every one’s sick and tired of it, of course, but pa likes it.”
“Never mind, dear, it’s always sweet. I love it. It reminds me of that darling Haydn Coffin. Isn’t he a dear? Isn’t he handsome? My! Susie and I did make fools of ourselves over him the first time we saw him. Do sing it, Carrie. I’ll shut my eyes and dream of him,” she cried in a tone of chastened sorrow, though her smile was cheerful. She was a plump girl, with green plush sleeves, and a Swiss belt covered with coffee lace.
Carrie rose to look for her music.
“Allow me,” said one of the young men, crossing the room in a great hurry. Mr. Spiller was tall and pale, with a facetious expression and sandy hair. He was a great wit, and whenever he said, “Allow me,” or “May I offer you any refreshment?” the girls giggled.
“Mr. Spiller, how absurd you are! You’re killing,” Carrie murmured, with laughter.
“Not at all,” observed Mr. Spiller, with truth. “Always delighted to wait on the ladies, I’m sure. Little dears! we all love them.”
“Rude man,” said Carrie, shaking out her skirts, and pushing the music-stool backwards and forwards.