The supper room adjoining was gay with jewels and dinner-gowns, clink of silver, tinkle of glass, speeding of waiters flying like black shuttles through some rainbow fabric in the making.
Near the door a girl—one of a group—turned as he strolled up.
“Barry!” she exclaimed, and saluted him in Rialto fashion, with both arms on his shoulders and a typical district kiss.
“Thank you for my flowers, ducky,” added Rosalind, “and you’re a darling to come. Here’s Betsy, by the way——”
“Why, Betsy!” he said, taking her outstretched hands, “when did you arrive from the Coast?”
“Yesterday, my dear, and never was I so glad to see this wretched old town. To hear Californians talk you’d think you were buying a ticket to the Coast of Paradise. But I notice the Californians remain here——” She took him by both arms: “The same boy. You don’t look great. Do you feel very great, dear?”
“Perhaps His Greatness needs food to look the part,” suggested Rosalind. “Don’t get us any,” she added, as he turned to pay his devoirs to the others in the group.
He shook hands with Harry Sneyd, bowed to Wally Crawford, encountered the mischievous gaze of Nancy Cassell, and paid his respects to her with gay cordiality.
There were other people, but the flow to and fro between supper and dance cut them off. He noticed Leopold Shill, very shiny, and exchanged a perfectly polite salute with him. Beyond, the thinning black hair and sanguine face of Albert Smull were visible amid groups continually forming and disintegrating.
It came into Annan’s mind that Eris also must have returned from the Coast; and he turned and made the inquiry of Rosalind.