"You're feeling all right, aren't you, Kay? I've thought lately—maybe that dress makes you look pale."
"I'm all right, mother."
Later on they went down the stairs together, and some impulse made her put her arm around Katherine's shoulders. Perhaps she felt that she was somehow being treacherous to this Katherine, who had left her dreams all behind her, and who now said "we" insteadof "I."
Mr. Trowbridge, being relieved of his hat, overcoat, gloves and stick in the hall, looked up at them with approval.
"Ought to be painted like that," he said. "Poor Sargent should have done it. Mother and daughter. Question: which is the mother?"
He was a large gentleman of an elephantine wit, and just now in an excellent humor. He had walked over in the crisp air, he knew he would have a good dinner, and he was ready for it.
"Some day soon, Henry," he said as he followed them into the drawing room, "some nice young chap will be stealing this girl of yours. Make quite a hole in the establishment, eh?"
"Not necessarily, if she picks the right one."
Cocktails and fresh caviare. Very good cocktails, very good caviare. Mr. Trowbridge lingered over both. Rutherford was waiting in the doorway to catch her mother's eye, but she was not looking.
"There's Rutherford, mother."
"Have another cocktail, George? You've had a good walk."
"Why, I don't mind, Henry. Where did you find this caviare? The last lot we got"
The old glutton, always thinking of his stomach! It was a quarter after eight already. She caught him by the elbow.
"Dinner's served," she said lightly. "And I'm hungry, if you're not."
They wandered out somehow. There was a new painting in the hall, and he must stop and look at it. Her feet and hands were like ice, and her head was hot. Dinner came on,
