Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire was a vermilion-haired widow with a chest like a blacksmith, who had become famous for her jewels and her social eccentricities. She and her party were established at one of the up-town "Trottoires," when Nobel Bergman and Lorelei arrived. Three examples of blushing boyhood devoted themselves to a languid blonde girl of thirty-five, and the hostess herself was dancing with another tender youth, but she came forward, panting.
"So good of you to come, dear," she cried. "This is Miss Wyeth, and these are my boys, Mr.—" She spoke four meaningless names, and four meaningless smiles responded; four wet-combed heads were bowed. She turned to her blonde companion, saying, "She IS pretty, isn't she, Alice?"
"Very," Alice agreed, without removing her eyes from the youth at her left.
Bergman invited Lorelei to finish the dance; then he inquired, "What do you think of her?"
"Her hair fascinates me; she looks as if she had just burst out of a thicket of henna leaves." Bergman laughed, silently. "But why did she invite me?"
"I told her to."
"You?"
"I knew you'd refuse if I asked you."
"So? Then I'm really your guest instead of hers."
"We'll leave whenever you say."