"We needn't be silly about their sons."
Athalie opened her dark blue eyes, then laughed confidently: "Oh, as for anything like that! I should hope not. We three ought to know something by this time."
"I should think so," murmured Catharine; and her warm, wine-scented breath fell on Athalie's cheek.
CHAPTER VIII
BEFORE February had ended C. Bailey, Jr., and Athalie Greensleeve had been to more than one play, had dined and supped together more than once at the Regina.
The magnificence of the most fashionable restaurant in town had thrilled and enchanted Athalie. At close range for the first time she had an opportunity to inspect the rich, the fashionable, and the great. As for celebrities, they seemed to be merely a by-product of the gay, animated, beautifully gowned throngs: people she had heard of, people more important still of whom she had never heard, people important only to themselves of whom nobody had ever heard thronged the great rococo rooms. The best hotel orchestra in America played there; the loveliest flowers, the most magnificent jewels, the most celebrated cuisine in the entire Republic—all were there for Athalie Greensleeve to wonder at and to enjoy. There were other things for her to wonder at, too,—the seemingly exhaustless list of C. Bailey, Jr.'s, acquaintances; for he was always nodding to somebody or returning salutes wherever they were, in the theatre, or the street, in his little limousine car, at restaurants. Men sometimes came up and spoke and were presented to Athalie: women, never.