Although the guests for the reception had been invited to appear at four o'clock, preparations for the event began at dawn, or so it seemed to Ella. Called by Anna at an unreasonable hour, she had dragged herself out of bed to go downstairs to eat breakfast with her sister. She could not remember a single occasion, since she had left Maple Valley, until this morning, when she had shared her breakfast with any one. She found herself, therefore, irritable, without conversation, but Lou made up for this by announcing a running stream of plans and by calling out orders to the hired-girl. Frequently, she ran to the telephone, to give a forgotten instruction to some tradesman, and she had no sooner finished her first cup of coffee than she begged to be excused to go into the kitchen.
The Countess, grateful for this departure, lingered over the bacon and eggs and the steaming, browned buckwheat griddle-cakes, glancing betimes over the local newspaper, the Maple Valley Star. Her eyes wandered, uncaptured, down column after column until, suddenly, they rested on a paragraph headed: ITALIAN COUNTESS ARRIVES
The Countess Nattatorrini (née Ella Poore), so read the paragraph, arrived in this city yesterday for a visit with her sister, Miss Louise Poore, at her handsome residence on Pleasant Avenue. This is the first visit the Countess has paid to her native city since her marriage to the Count over twenty years ago. Society is all agog and many are the entertainments planned in her honour. The Star says: Welcome Countess to your old home!
The Countess smiled as she laid the paper aside. Then, folding her napkin, as she had observed Lou do before her, she drew it through a wide circular band of silver, marked Ella, which had evidently been preserved throughout the years in expectation of her reappearance. This ritual performed, she rose from the table and walked to the mantelpiece to examine her reflection in the mirror. She was never able to pass a mirror without a glance at herself and frequently she sought one out. This morning, she noted, with a little pang, that a new line had left its furrow on the left side of her mouth and that the wrinkles around her eyes appeared to be myriad. She must sleep in the future; she must not permit herself to lapse into old age simply because she had been jilted. She sighed as she wondered if only those who could depend upon the love of one man for ever might allow themselves to show their age. Was it, she questioned herself, because she was always seeking love, always searching emotion, that she looked as young as she did? But how hideous she was this morning, without make-up, or with the modicum of make-up she had put on in her half-deference to her sister's wishes! She was, she assured herself, downright ugly this morning. She would look no better than her old friends in Maple Valley and they would exult over this. How old Ella looks! she could hear them say. Well, she would show them. On the instant, she determined to pay no heed to Lou's views in this matter, to disregard them utterly, as she had already disregarded her views in relation to smoking, and this new thought reminded her that she had not yet enjoyed her after-breakfast smoke, the most important cigarette of the day, she believed, as it was her superstition that it acted as a laxative. She lighted a cigarette, and as she began to puff, her brain cleared; she felt more content. The lines, she was sure, would disappear under this indulgence. It was self-denial that created wrinkles. She was a woman to whom self-indulgence was the breath of life; she could not tolerate the idea of denying herself anything.
Recalling now that Lou was in the kitchen, she wondered vaguely if she could help; she would be expected, doubtless, to make herself useful in some capacity or other. As she pushed open the swinging baize door she tried to conceive a concrete idea of what a reception in Maple Valley would be like. She could remember no receptions in her young days. Her imagination, filled, as it was, with memories of brilliant Parisian entertainments, was of no assistance to her.
The kitchen was spacious and comfortable. There was a great range, which burned coal in the winter, and a gasolene stove for use in the summer; sinks, white tables, white cupboards. A row of wide windows looked out over the garden and lawn. Through them she caught a glimpse of a crescentshaped bed of day-lilies and bleeding-hearts and, beyond, a clump of peonies shaking their shaggy, impertinent, rose heads. Lou was busy removing shrimps from tins; the cook was preparing mayonnaise dressing; on the back porch Anna was turning the handle of the ice-cream freezer.
Can't I help? the Countess demanded cheerfully.
Lou looked up but did not reply; an expression of horror unmasked her thought. The expression was repeated, echoed, on the face of the cook. Ella was mystified until she suddenly recollected that her cigarette remained between her lips.
Can't I help? she asked again, even more pleasantly than before.
O, we don't want you to work, Lou replied at last. There's nothing you can do.
Nonsense! There must be something.
Lou had an inspiration: There are the flowers. I wonder . . .
Just the thing. I'll cut the flowers.
Get the Countess the shears, Lou directed the cook. She turned back to Ella. We'll want bushels, she said. The rooms must be bright with them.
What shall I bring in?
Everything there is! Pick until you are tired. Anna will do the rest.
Grasping the scissors and a proffered basket, the Countess made her way out. Lou and Mary, the cook, noted with horror that the cigarette still rested between her lips. It was a bright June day, not too warm. Fleecy clouds speckled the iris sky. The birds were singing. As she strolled to the rosegarden abutting upon the barn, Ella began to feel almost happy. Discarding her cigarette, now burning uncomfortably close to the tip, she clipped the yellow tea-roses, the magenta roses on their long stalks, and the pink ramblers growing on a trellis. Occasionally, she hesitated to gaze across the green lawn where the robins hopped saucily about, now pecking the turf, now, with the long, wriggling angle-worms in their beaks, flying away towards some unseen nest. A cardinal made a scarlet spot in one of the oak-trees, and a Baltimore oriole shot a shaft of yellow through the air as he darted from branch to branch. Underneath the trees on the lawn, a sleek tabby cat appeared to be sleeping on his belly, but occasionally he exhibited certain signs which indicated that he was biding his time for a utilitarian spring.
The Countess bore her basket, brimming with roses, into the house and returned to clip peonies, coreopsis, and sweet-peas, white, violet, salmon, deep purple, and striated. Now she cut pinks and verbenas, phlox, pansies, and nasturtiums. How good it was to be among these nice old-fashioned flowers again. She recalled how she and Tony had once stopped the carriage to gather blossoms from the red cliffs overhanging the Mediterranean, and almost as quickly she tried to blot this memory from her mind. A shadow passed across her face as she sensed another omen of evil: three crows, blue-black as ravens, with raucous caws, sailed high over her head and disappeared.
Aren't you tired? Lou, now beating up the whites of eggs for an angel-cake, called out from the window.
Not a bit, Ella replied, but tell me when you have enough.
O, we can use every flower in the garden, but Anna can finish cutting them when you are tired.
That afternoon when Ella, dressed in a becoming gown of ecru muslin, a half-dozen gleaming stars and butterflies and leaves and insects decorating her ample bosom, great ivory-white pearls in her ears, descended the stairs, she discovered to what use the flowers had been put. They obscured the rooms, most of them disposed in cut-glass vases and pitchers, on tables, bookcases, mantelpieces, wherever there was a flat surface; a few of the larger vessels, banked high with blossoms and sword-ferns, stood in the fireplaces. The usual chairs had been augmented by a score of folding camp-chairs, rented for the occasion, and backed up against the walls; they even stood in front of the bookcases.
That's where we'll receive, Lou explained, pointing to the double-doorway between the parlour and the dining-room, which had been festooned with loops of smilax.
How pretty it all is! Ella approved. It looks as if there were to be a wedding.
The Countess regarded her sister. Lou was wearing a white poplin dress, with mutton-legged sleeves, tight from the elbow to the wrist, and a wide skirt which began to flare a little below the squeezing waist-band, an indigo ribbon fastened with a silver buckle. She had combed her hair more carefully than usual and it showed the traces of the use of the curling-iron, a quantity of frizzes masking the brow, just like the Princess of Wales, Ella thought. Then she appraised Lou's unpowdered face, the sallow, dead, sexless skin, the narrow, querulous lips, the weak nose, the watery eyes.
Not long after, the guests began to arrive. The still apronless Anna ushered them in. The first-comer was Miss Darrell, Maple Valley's exclusive dress-maker. Lou had explained to the Countess that in a small town one must invite everybody.
That Miss Darrell's dress was not a good advertisement for her talents as a couturière was Ella's first impression. In the first place, it was a winter dress, black satin, trimmed with an inordinate amount of passementerie, and cut in a sort of parody of a style which the Countess dimly remembered had been in vogue in Paris two or three seasons earlier. Over her fluffy, brown hair Miss Darrell wore a small, black bonnet, on which a single pink rose appeared to be decidedly uncomfortable. Miss Darrell was quite plump, and her face was jolly. She wore white cotton gloves, and she lifted her train with her left hand as she entered the room.
How do you do, Countess, were her first words. I'm sure we're glad to welcome you. How do you like Maple Valley?
It's just as nice as ever, the Countess replied.
O, nicer. There've been so many changes. Have you seen the new water-works?
Not yet.
And we're going to have a new depot.
That's splendid.
And a new High School.
What improvements!
Yes, we're going right along. There ain't a city of its size in the state that's so enterprising. I spent a week in Cedar Rapids recently—I have customers there—and you'd be surprised to see how much faster Maple Valley's getting along.
Miss Darrell was interrupted in this pleasant flow of encomiums for her native metropolis by the arrival of Mrs. Barnes and her daughter Clara. Mrs. Barnes was a tall, thin woman with a gushing manner; Clara, a girl of sixteen or seventeen.
I'm so glad to meet you, Countess, Clara said before her mother had a chance to say anything. I'm sure you've heard Nordica and Eames and all the others. I'm to be a grand opera singer myself.
I . . . the Countess began, but she perceived that no reply was demanded or expected as Clara continued: I've been studying with Professor Hendricks. He's done all he can for me. I'm his star pupil; in fact, I'm the only girl in Maple Valley who can sing at all. He says he has nothing more to teach me, and so I'm going to Chicago to study in the fall.
My daughter has really a remarkable voice, Mrs. Barnes now found opportunity to interpolate.
I should be delighted to hear her sing, the Countess put in.
O, you will! You will! Mrs. Barnes cried with delight. When I heard you were coming, the first thing I said to my husband was that you must hear Clara. Mr. Barnes wants to talk to you about Clara. You see he won't entirely take my word for it. He thinks I'm prejudiced because I was a singer myself once and . . .
I'm a soprano, Clara interrupted, and I suppose I've done as well here as I could, but I'll have to wait until I get to Chicago before I can go ahead and really begin to prepare for my career in grand opera.
I suppose, the Countess suggested, you'll go to Paris to finish off.
There! Did you hear that, mama? Clara demanded. Did you hear that? The Countess thinks that for any one of my ability there's no use wasting time in Chicago. I've said that all along. Paris is the place, isn't it, Countess, to study for grand opera?
Almost all the great singers have studied there.
There, mama, did you hear that?
Mrs. Barnes's face assumed a perplexed and worried air. She had not foreseen so complete a plan. It pleased her to boast about her daughter's voice, even to talk about her studying in Chicago, but Paris . . . !
I don't like to think of our little girl going to Paris so soon, she objected. Paris is, well, isn't it rather . . . well, ahem?
A little, perhaps, the Countess replied, smiling, but you might go with her.
I don't believe, Mrs. Barnes responded with some alarm, that Mr. Barnes would hear of it, Clara and me going away at the same time. He's a home body, and he likes his folks.
Folk, mama.
Foik. Yes, Mr. Barnes has a great affection for his folk.
Ella, Lou put an end to this, here is Effie Manning.
Effie!
Ella! and then, I'm Mrs. Chase now, you know. Three children, Ella.
How splendid, Effie!
After they had embraced they took each other in. Ella found it difficult to reconcile her memory of the pretty Effie Manning of the late seventies with this stubby, short-waisted woman, whose bodice sagged above the top of her corset, whose skirt was hitched up in front, and whose back formed a curve which with that of her bosom almost completed a perfect sphere. She wore a white taffeta dress with wide, black stripes, which gave her the appearance of an eccentrically painted barrel.
Well, Ella, how do you like Maple Valley?
The Countess noted that even Effe's manner of speech had changed, the result, possibly, of ill-fitting teeth-plates.
Just as much as ever, she replied.
But there are so many improvements! Have you seen the new water-works?
I arrived only last night, Effie. I've had so little time . . .
That's so, and you must see the new High School—O, that's not built yet, but it's planned. We're very proud of our little city. Of course, it's not as big as Paris yet, but it's newer. I must drive you around. I can't think, Ella, she went on, how you could stay in Europe during the World's Fair. It was wonderful! Of course, I've never been to the old country, but everybody says that there's nothing like the Court of Honour over there, not even the Taj Mahal or the Pyramids. It was beautiful. Do you remember—she turned to Lou, who nodded assent—the Court of Honour when it was illuminated at night, all the fountains running? And now it's gone, destroyed by fire.
I'm so sorry, rejoined the Countess. I might have stopped off in Chicago on the way back.
It's too late, but I hope the new depot will be built before you go. You're going to make us a good, long visit, aren't you, Ella? I want to give a kettle-drum for you.
How do you do, Mrs. Sinclair, Lou was saying. I want you to meet my sister, the Countess Nattatorrini.
I'm delighted to meet you, smiled the Countess.
This is Mrs. Dr. Sinclair, Lou explained.
And I'm pleased to meet you, rejoined the timid, little woman. How do you like Maple Valley?
O, so much!
Hasn't it improved since your day . . . I mean since you were here last? Mrs. Sinclair, flushing, hopelessly hurried on. Have you seen the new water-works?
Not yet, said the Countess. I've only been here since yesterday. I'm planning to see them the first thing tomorrow morning.
Why, Ella, Lou expostulated, we're going out to the old farm tomorrow.
Well, then, the next day. Surely the next day.
Miss Jelliffe, the society reporter for the Star, was the next guest to be presented. She wore a freshly laundered skirt of stiff, starched duck, a pink shirt-waist with a high collar, and a broad linen Ascot tie, pinned with a gold horseshoe. On her yellow hair, streaked with white, was balanced a wide straw sailor. Miss Jelliffe was fading, but it was always said of her that once she had been a beauty. Her first symptoms of decay had unfortunately synchronized with her father's financial failure. He had been a wholesale grain merchant, but a year or two of bad crops had ruined him. Nevertheless, the family still held a high social position in the community.
Did you see the little write-up I gave you in the Star? was Miss Jelliffe's initial question.
It was the first item I saw in the paper, the Countess truthfully replied.
Removing a small pad of paper and a pencil from her bag, Miss Jelliffe demanded, How do you like Maple Valley?
I love it, the Countess responded.
Scribbling away, Miss Jelliffe continued, Don't you find many improvements? 'The water-works, the projected depot, the High School. . . . There is to be brick paving, at least on Main Street and Oakdale Avenue. The reporter ruefully recollected the cedar-block roads in great need of repair.
I wouldn't have known the place, was the Countess's tactful answer.
Miss Jelliffe scribbled away. Now groups of two and three together began to surge into the room: Mrs. Hughes, wife of the Universalist minister, Mrs. Munger, wife of a prominent attorney, Mrs. George S. Collins, wife of the rich grain and hog merchant, Alfreda Mitchell, who, during the winter months, taught Maple Valley children the waltz, the two-step, and the schottische, all the plain and fancy dances, Katie Pearl, who taught china-painting, Mrs. Atkinson, and her two daughters, Gladys and Doris, the Atkinson twins, the Misses Spencer, whose father had been in the lumber business and whose death had left these orphan spinsters well-provided for, Mrs. Monroe, who, it was said, was writing a novel, and of whom this had been said for fifteen years; moreover, it was true; Mrs. Judge Porter, Miss Hurok, the Bohemian banker's daughter, Mabel Crandall, daughter of the Episcopalian Rector, and a great many more.
At a quarter of six, Mrs. Townsend, the acknowledged leader of Maple Valley society, accompanied by her sister, Mrs. Wiltbank, arrived. She was an extremely tall woman, towering over her companion, with a beak-like nose, shaggy eyebrows, and a well-defined, black moustache. She was fashionably attired in a gown of navy blue foulard with a satin bolero jacket, a costume which the Countess decided at once must have been purchased in Chicago.
Dear Ella, she said, kissing the Countess, how long it has been! How could you stay away so long?
I've grown so used to Paris, Mayme, the Countess explained.
I know, I know. Paris is charming. The Louvre is magnificent, but, after all, there's no place like home, and in all my travels I've never found a town of its size to compare with Maple Valley. The improvements . . .
I must see the water-works! Ella cried desperately.
And you'll stay until the new depot is built and the brick paving is laid. We've quite a lot of improvements projected. We have a very progressive mayor now and the Ladies' Aid Society and the Ladies' Home Study Club do a great deal for the city. We could do more if women could vote.
There I am not with you, intercepted Miss Darrell, who had been standing near with the hope that eventually she might force an opening in the conversation; I believe woman's place to be the home.
After this very daring attack on Mrs. Townsend, the dressmaker recoiled perceptibly.
Indeed, Miss Darrell! Mrs. Townsend adjusted her lorgnette and stared at the intruder.
The room now appeared to the Countess to be a sort of bedlam. It did not seem to her that she had ever before heard so many people chattering at once together in such disagreeable, twangy voices. The scene reminded her of a rogue elephant stampede of which once she had been an involuntary witness in India. She had quite lost count of the number of people to whom she was being presented; she could recall no names. Automatically she held herself ready to make some pleasant remark concerning the water-works. She was even contemplating the possibility of flight when Lou brought forward a woman with a fine, high forehead, green, intellectual eyes, a rather faded skin (how awful, Ella reflected, women looked without make-up!) and brown hair, neatly and simply arranged. She wore a rather threadbare, brown checked suit, and a brown sailor. This was Lennie Colman, who taught English literature in the Maple Valley High School.
It's such a great pleasure to meet you, Countess, she said. There are so many questions I want to ask you about Europe.
But Maple Valley is making such headway.
O, I know. In the direction of water-works.
And the new High School. . . .
I'll have to teach in it.
And the depot? The Countess was smiling.
I never have money enough to go away.
And the new brick pavement?
I haven't a carriage.
Leaning forward, the Countess patted Lennie Colman's shoulder. She spoke in a low but fervent tone: Come to see me some day soon, dear. I want to talk with you.
At this point, a great deal of excitement rose near the door, while a sudden hush made the corners of the room conspicuous. Every face turned to stare at a newcomer.
Who is it? the Countess whisperingly demanded of her sister.
It's poor Mrs. Cameron. . . . I had to ask her, but I hope . . . Lou turned very red, held her hand to her mouth, and whispered very audibly in Ella's ear: She takes drugs!
Mrs. Cameron was truly a curious spectacle. She was dressed in a flowing tea-gown of rose challis with a long train. From top to bottom this creation was hung with enormous bows of pale green ribbon, with floating ends. Her hair was untidily arranged and she wore no hat. Her eyes were her most prominent feature: great, steel-grey eyes that pierced any object or person on whom she focused them. She approached the Countess, and during the preamble of introductions, shook hands with her.
I hate gloves, she explained, detest them, but I always wear a glove on my right hand when I go to receptions, because I hate moist hands more than I do gloves, and I hate dry ones more than moist ones.
No suitable reply occurring to her, the Countess preserved silence. Mrs. Cameron was not nonplussed. Are you, she demanded severely, reading The Martian?
The Martian? the Countess repeated interrogatively.
Du Maurier's new novel. It's running in Harper's.
Ah! yes. I remember. I looked over an instalment last night. I haven't really started to read it yet but I'm going to because there's so much French in it.
Too much French, Mrs. Cameron snapped, far, far too much French. Don't read it. I can't tell you how it's disappointed me after Trilby.
You think . . . ?
Ido. Don't read it. Read Soldiers of Fortune. Ah! that book has passion. A little naughty, perhaps, but vital. What a hero Robert Clay is, a man of nerve and muscle? Are you acquainted with the works of Davis?
Davis? The Countess looked blank.
Richard Harding. Richard Harding Davis. What a refined writer! Yet he writes with passion, too. Have you read Phroso?
Is that by Davis?
Mrs. Cameron's glance was withering. Phroso? No, that's by Anthony Hope. Ah! Mrs. Munger. Mrs. Cameron turned to greet her friend.
She's bright as a dollar, such a good mind, Lou explained. It's really a dreadful pity. You see, it was the pain. She was so ill that they gave her morphia. She's never been able to resist it since.
She seems all right, said the Countess.
O, she is all right, quite all right, dear—Lou was flustered—but a little queer . . . her dress, and all that, but quite all right. Quite. Lou patted her sister on the shoulder.
At six o'clock a lap-supper was served. 'The ladies sat in straight rows on the chairs ranged round the walls, while Anna and Mary, the cook, passed circular tin trays, one for each guest. An embroidered doily covered the centre of each tray, on which reposed a Haviland china plate piled with shrimps submerged in mayonnaise, a devilled ham sandwich, a fork, a napkin, and a glass of water. There was a good deal of sprightly conversation while the guests were partaking of this repast, particularly in the corner where Miss Darrell, Mrs. Sinclair, and Miss Jelliffe were sitting.
Seems to me, muttered Miss Darrell, under her breath, that she has surprisingly little to say.
One would think, said Mrs. Sinclair, that she had lived in Maple Valley all her life. She talked of nothing else.
It would seem, Miss Jelliffe put in, that a lady who had spent so many years abroad—she must be fifty, at least—would have more to say about the monuments. Do you remember when Mrs. Townsend returned how interesting she was about the Louvre and Trafalgar Square? She gave that talk to the Ladies' Home Study Club and mentioned the name of nearly every painter who is represented in the Louvre. I don't see how she remembered them all!
I was looking for more style, too, Miss Darrell continued. She isn't a bit fin de seekle. That's just a simple, summer dress.
Did you notice her slippers? Mrs. Sinclair queried, in her tremulous, timid voice, long pointed slippers like dudes wear here. I must say I prefer American fashions. I think we do about as well in Maple Valley, everything considered, as they do anywhere in the world.
Miss Darrell beamed at this indirect compliment. I get all the fashion-books the world over, she asserted, and compare them, and then I select the best details, but my dresses are all original. No two alike. No lady that I dress can ever say that she has seen any one else wearing the same model. She might look from—she waved her chubby arms, a fork in one hand, in a vague gesture suggesting infinite space—Paris to Chicago and never would she see the same model.
You really do marvels, continued Mrs. Sinclair. When I was in Chicago last winter I saw nothing so fin de siècle as the dress you made for me last year to wear at the McEvoy wedding. Do you remember my blue satin trimmed with forget-me-nots?
Do I remember? Miss Jelliffe was almost indignant. I described that dress to the last ribbon in the Star.
The two servants were now distributing strawberry ice-cream, angel-cake, coffee in large cups, with cream and sugar, salted almonds in pink crepepaper-baskets, and olives in cut-glass bowls.
Mayme Townsend was talking intimately to Lou Poore.
She musn't do that here. You've got to tell her to stop it, she said.
Lou was apologetic, trembling. I did tell her, Mayme. She says she won't stop.
I don't know what's gotten into her. She should know better. She's got to stop. I'll tell her so myself. If she doesn't she'll be talked about all over town.
I don't believe it'll do any good, moaned Lou. She says she looks like a fright without it.
What difference can it make to a woman of her age how she looks, just so she looks natural?
Mrs. Barnes was also conversing very earnestly with her neighbour on the adjoining camp-chair. To think, she said, that Mrs. Townsend should bring her sister here, right under Mrs. Sinclair's nose. Some people have no sensitiveness, no pride.
May be she doesn't know, her neighbour suggested.
Know? Of course she knows! Everybody knows. Why, the doctor drives over there every day, and you can't say that Sarah Wiltbank looks sick.
The Countess, seated between Lennie Colman and Effie Chase, was eating her ice-cream, as silent as might be. Occasionally she smiled.
May I ask, Lennie queried, why you are smiling?
The Countess leaned towards the school-teacher confidentially. Do you know, my dear, she said, I feel like telling you a secret.
Do. What is it?
I've determined never to go near the water-works!
In the columns of the Star the next morning Miss Jelliffe gave a spirited account of this entertainment, but a week later she entirely outdid herself. It will be as well, perhaps, to reproduce her complete report:
'Tis, indeed, a good thing to come back home if every one should meet such a welcome as the Countess Nattatorrini (née Ella Poore) of Paris, France, says this much-missed noble matron who has been away from our midst for twenty long years, and who is back for the first time since her departure. Why, do you know, Louise Poore, her sister and hostess, says she only takes breakfast with her, her days being filled up with luncheons, teas, lap-suppers, euchre-parties, picnics, and kettle-drums, and still some of her friends, old and new, are disappointed at not being able to make a date with her and enjoy her company, for the simple reason that the days are not long enough for more to be crowded in. Beginning with the reception and lap-supper at her sister's residence last Friday (fully described in Saturday's Star) there has been a succession and round of entertainments, culminating yesterday in Mrs. George Chase's cinch-party to which were invited all the members of the Ladies' Home Study Club and their husbands, who enjoyed a fine game of cards and met the Countess, who is exceedingly democratic, at the same time.
Mrs. Chase's elegant mansion on Oakdale Avenue was gaily decorated for the occasion. The front parlour was abloom with pink sweet-peas, while the prevailing colour scheme in the sitting-room was red, although a few white flowers made a pleasing contrast. Cards were played at little tables. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Townsend won the first prize, a dainty cut-glass spoon-holder, and the booby prize, a set of tennis balls, went to Mr. and Mrs. Rollo Barnes. After the game was over an elegant repast was served on these same little tables, consisting of chicken sandwiches, vanilla ice-cream and sunshine-cake, and coffee with cream and sugar. Individual, cute, blue paper-baskets stuffed with salted almonds were beside each plate.
After supper Miss Clara Barnes, the talented daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Rollo Barnes, who has been taking vocal lessons of Professor Hendricks of this city and who is soon to go to Chicago to continue her studies for grand opera, rendered a vocal solo, Good-bye summer, by Sig. Tosti.
The Countess Nattatorrini wore a dress of sheer, pink organdie, cut square at the neck, and her jewels were the centre of a great deal of interest and attention. In her ears she wore her famous pearls, which perhaps once graced the ears of a Hindu princess, and on her breast was pinned a large diamond and ruby butterfly, sparkling with all the hues of the rainbow. This butterfly, we have been given to understand, was the gift of the Infanta Eulalia, sister of the late King of Spain and a warm personal friend of the Countess.
We wonder if we are betraying a secret when we tell of a gala entertainment that is being planned for the Countess early in July? If so, we apologize, but we cannot resist speaking of it. We refer to the monstrous welcome which is to be celebrated in Hall's Opera House when the Countess will be greeted by all her old townsfolk and she will hear and see a brilliant bevy of our best local talent.