He was at her side in a moment, and had written his name opposite hers for every dance.
George looked over and saw them, and gasped in surprise: “Jerusalem, that’s Molly!”
He leaned against a velvet cul-de-sac near the doorway and watched them. Mrs. St. Bibbs was the belle of the evening. Everybody crowded about her, and the viscount leaned over her and talked in his most engaging manner, fanning her with an old newspaper, as she smiled brightly upon him, a brilliant stream of wit, persiflage and repartee falling from her lips.
“Mon dieu!” said the viscount to himself, as his ardent gaze rested upon her, “I wish I knew who she is.”
At supper Mrs. St. Bibbs was the life of the gang. She engaged in a witty discussion with the brightest intellects around the table, completely overwhelming the boss joshers of the town. She conversed readily with gents from the wards, speaking their own dialect, and even answered without hesitation a question put to her by a man who had a sister attending the State University.
George could scarcely believe that this fascinating, brilliant woman of the world was the quiet little wife he had left at home that evening.
When the ball was over and the musicians had been stood off, George went up to his wife, feeling ashamed and repentant.
“Molly,” he said, “forgive me. I didn’t know how beautiful and gay you could be in swell society. The next time our Longfellow Literary Coterie gives a fish fry at the Hook and Ladder Company Hall I’ll take you along.”
Mrs. St. Bibbs took her husband’s arm with a sweet smile.
“All right, George,” she said, “I just wanted you to see that this town can’t put up no society shindigs that are too high up for me to tackle. I once spent two weeks in Galveston, and I generally catch on to what’s proper as quick as anybody.”