course after course, her mother eating delicately, her father appreciatively and Mr. Trowbridge slowly and with unction. Oysters, soup, fish, roast; sherry and sauterne. "Very good wine that. Still some of the old stock? Yes, I think I will."
Salad and sweet. And then Mr. Trowbridge taking fruit, cutting it meticulously with the gold fruit knife, eating and savoring it deliberately. Wouldn't they ever get through? They had been years at the table. The candles were melting, splashing little drops of blue wax onto the lace cloth; the room was broiling hot. Mr. Trowbridge's jaws moved steadily, appreciatively.
"I think I'll have a few more of those hot house grapes, Katherine. They are really excellent."
Over at last. Pushing back the chairs and James opening the door. Into the hall and then to the library. Coffee. Coffee quickly and get it over. Where's the bridge table? Where are the cards?
"Do stop fidgeting, Kay. James will get the tables. Will you have more coffee, George?"
"You tempt me, Katherine. Even if I don't sleep tonight"
Her eyes were burning. Her mother was pouring the coffee with delicate deliberation; the gleam and glitter of the massive tray, with its tiny cups, its elaborate panoply of wealth, made her dizzy. And what nonsense it all was, James moving like an acolyte across the room with that ridiculous cup balanced on a tray, and Rutherford like some high priest, reverently bearing in the liqueurs. How much simpler and easier life had been at the ranch, with the cook in the kitchen doorway:
"I hope you folks'll like that coffee. It's strong enough to bear an egg."
The ranch. The ranch.
At half past nine she managed to slip away to call Tom from the telephone in her bedroom, but both Nora and a housemaid were in her room, Nora to lay out her sheer nightgown, the maid turning down the bed.
"Put a wrap down in the hall for me," she told Nora. "I'm going out later."
