OF the debacle that followed that night, Kay was never able to think except with a sense of shuddering horror. She dressed feverishly, intent only on getting back quickly to the club, and at seven-thirty she heard the telephone ring, and Rutherford coming heavily up the stairs and tapping at her mother's door.
"It is Mr. Trowbridge, madam. Mrs. Trowbridge has an attack of neuralgia, and will be unable to come."
Then shortly after that Katherine along the hall, her dressing gown around her shoulders.
"What are you doing tonight, Kay? Anything important?"
"There's a dance at the club."
"Oh, if that's all—Mrs. Trowbridge has a headache, and he is coming without her. I'm afraid you'll have to make a fourth at bridge."
"But, mother"
"It's only a dance, isn't it? You can go over later if you like."
"I've promised," she said desperately. "Can't you get somebody else?"
"I have tried. So many people have gone back to town, and the rest—I do think, Kay," she added with a faint asperity, "that when you think how little we really ask of you you might do this pleasantly."
She had to agree finally. There was nothing else to do. But Katherine did not go at once. She moved around the room.
"We will have to replace these taffeta curtains next spring. They have faded outrageously."
But Kay had an idea that she was not thinking of the curtains. When at last she went to the door she stood there, hesitating.
