At her elbow a slip of a “Joy-baby” was holding forth with animation to Mrs. Sixsmith and Mrs. Smee.
“That was one of my dreams,” she was saying, “and last night again I had another—in spite of a night-light, too! It began by a ring formed of crags and boulders enclosing a troop of deer—oh, such a herd of them—delicate, distinguished animals with little pom-pom horns, and some had poodles’ tails. Sitting behind a rhododendron bush was an old gentleman on a white horse; he never moved a muscle. Suddenly I became aware of a pack of dogs.... And then, before my very eyes, one of the dogs transformed itself into a giraffe....”
“You must have been out to supper.”
“It’s true I had. Oh, it was a merry meal.”
“Who gave it?”
“Dore Davis did: to meet her betrothed—Sir Francis Four.”
“What’s he like?”
“Don’t ask me. It makes one tired to look at him.”
“Was it a party?”
“Nothing but literary-people with their Beatrices.... My dear the scum! Half-way through supper, Dore got her revolver out and began shooting the glass drops off her chandelier.”