"That wasn't spring water you saw in their glasses."
"Are you—going to?" Lorelei eyed him anxiously.
"I can't very well make myself conspicuous by refusing everything; I don't want to look like a zebra in a hen-yard—and a cocktail before dinner wouldn't hurt anybody." Noting his wife's expression he kissed her lightly. "Now don't spoil your first party by worrying over me. Just forget you're married and have a good time."
Music greeted them as they descended the stairs, and they found some of the guests dancing to the strains of a giant orchestrion built into the music-room. Hayman promptly seized upon Lorelei and whirled her away, but not before she saw the Wyeth blonde making for Bob as an eagle makes for its prey.
Society was tango-mad. The guests could not wait for evening, but indulged their latest fancy in the open air and in the light of day. Doubtless the Naiads used to dance in daylight, when they made merry, but modern terpsichorean figures are suitable only for the evening. The spectacle of a red-faced, harem-skirted matron wabbling through a one-step, her billowing amplitude restrained only by a boneless six-inch corset, is even less classic than the antics of a dancing bear.
Guests continued to arrive from time to time; some from Westchester and the Connecticut shore, others from neighboring estates. One couple in riding-clothes, out for a gallop, dismounted and stayed for a trot. The huge tiled terrace began to resemble a Broadway the dansant.
There was more freedom, more vivacity, than Lorelei was accustomed to, even in the gayest down-town resorts; the fun was swift and hilarious, there was a great deal of drinking. Bob, after a manful struggle against his desires and a frightened resistance to the advances of Miss Wyeth, had fled to the billiard-room. The Widow T.-B., odorous of cocktails, plowed through the intricacies of the latest dances, wallowing like a bluff-bowed tramp steamer, full to the hatches with a cargo of rum and sugar. Bert Hayman, fatuously inflamed with Lorelei's beauty, waged a bitter contest with the other men for her favor. He appropriated her, he was affectionate; he ventured to become suggestive in a snickering, covert way. His intimate manner of dancing would not have been tolerated in any public place, and Lorelei was upon the point of objecting, until she saw that the others, men and women alike, were exaggerating the movements and entwining their limbs even more pronouncedly. Harden Fennell, Lorelei's host, explained:
"We don't dance in the cafes any more. They're so strict it's no fun."
Fennell was a slight man of thirty or fifty, colorless of face and predatory of nose. He had a shocking sense of humor, which he displayed by telling Lorelei a story that left her mute with indignation until she saw that he was quite unconscious of any breach of etiquette. When he finally left her she was sadly bewildered and found herself wondering if the occurrences of this afternoon were not a part of some bad dream. Certainly such an erotic atmosphere could not be considered "smart," this complete freedom from restraint could not be a recognized social usage. The suspicion that Fennell had presumed upon her reputation as a show-girl to lower the bars of decorum troubled her until she heard him repeat his vile story to other women. From the general laughter she judged that her own ideas would be thought Puritanical.
She became interested in watching Miss Courtenay, the girl in the riding-habit, one of the season's debutantes, who, it seemed, was especially susceptible to the influence of liquor.