"Well, anyhow, we drink it now, as aperitif. A course by itself. Pass up your glasses everyone. Miss Pym, the chair is for you."
A basket chair had been imported and lined with a motley collection of cushions; except for the hard chair at the desk it was the only legitimate seat in the room, the rest of the party having brought their cushions with them and being now disposed about the floor or piled in relaxed heaps like kittens on the bed. Someone had tied a yellow silk handkerchief over the light so that a golden benevolence took the place of the usual hard brightness. The twilight beyond the wide-open window made a pale blue back-cloth that would soon be a dark one. It was like any student party of her own college days, but as a picture it had more brilliance than her own parties had had. Was it just that the colours of the cushions were gayer? That the guests were better physical types, without lank hair, spectacles, and studious pallor?
No, of course it wasn't that. She knew what it was. There was no cigarette smoke.
"O'Donnell isn't here yet," Thomas said, collecting tooth-glasses from the guests and laying them on the cloth that covered the desk.
"I expect she's helping Rouse to put up the boom," a Disciple said.
"She can't be," a second Disciple said, "it's Saturday."
"Even a P.T.I. stops work on a Sunday," said a third.
"Even Rouse," commented the fourth.
"Is Miss Rouse still practising rotatory travelling?" Lucy asked.
"Oh, yes," they said. "She will be, up to the day of the Dem."