pealed to Lucy, reminding her of their hotel apartment's colored engraving of an 18th century fete where a ballet was being performed on what was here a dance floor. The Club and the portraits above also recalled the de Goncourt book which she had been rereading. This room was a place in which she would like to perform because it was closer to the audience than a theatre stage where the deep orchestra pit and the intense spotlight and footlights separated you from the audience and made you feel alone except for the applause at the end of your dance. Maybe it took this kind of place to make one feel what being an artist is: a personal contact with the audience. She hardly could wait until Simone Calvette appeared, to learn firsthand what made her so special. Everyone she had met through Figente and Lyle was here except Mrs. Doyle. Carly, way over against the wall on the other side of the dance floor, fatter, and the color of that red wine he was so crazy about, what was it? Oh yes, Chateau Mouton Rothschild '07. All that excitement about some old wine! Lyle too. Those boys thought it proved they were something special because they knew things like that. Funny how you could be in love with someone like Carly and then, seeing him now, not feel a thing. Vida said that was infatuation. I wouldn't mind being infatuated right now, she thought, and caught unawares by Lyle's sullen glance smiled because it was only fair to be polite.
Figente raised a hand in response to a wave from a young woman next to Lyle in a party of six at a round table.
"Who's that?" asked Hal, all eyes.
"Clarissa van Horn, Lyle's fiancée."
Lucy looked curiously at the slender Clarissa, noting the casual wave of her side-parted short bob, expensively simple beige chiffon gown that matched her hair, and the long pearl necklace wound once around a long neck. She must be almost as tall as Lyle. Society girls had a careless elegance as though it didn't matter how they dressed, she thought admiringly. It was especially noticeable in contrast to Tessie Soler in the same party. Tessie's hair, reddened for the show, glared, as did her emerald-green dress. She was even more stagily vivacious than usual. Tessie was always "on"—even at Sardi's. A stranger could tell she's a star. But maybe Tessie was right to be "on"—because people expected anyone who is a star to act the part. Beman's face was redder than ever in that tight high collar. Then, the other side of Tessie, there was a foreign-looking man, medium tall with a broad body, large head—heavy
