entertained. When the social secretary, Miss Fane, would go about with lists in her hand and a hunted look in her eyes; when the florist's men would come in and standing in doorways with their heads on one side, surveying their work, critically, and Rutherford would be counting glasses and plates in the pantry.
"I beg your pardon, madam. Two of the sherry glasses have been broken."
"Well, don't bother me about it, Rutherford. Send down and replace them."
Then the hour arriving, and people with it, the first corners apologetic for being early, the tardy ones for being late. Bessie, bored but complaisant, wandering in late with a man or two in her train, and making up for the shortness of her skirts by the length of her onyx and diamond cigarette holder; and seeing a great deal while apparently looking at nothing at all.
She had heard the sequel of Tom's evening at the country club, and she had formed a new and higher opinion of Kay; Kay arriving at the dance, and being immediately surrounded:
"Say, Kay, the boy friend certainly got stewed!"
"Ask Herbert where his hat is!"
"Why didn't you fight him, Herb?"
And some one answering for Herbert, solemnly:
"Because he ain't got no father, he ain't got no father, he ain't got no father, to buy the clothes he wears."
And Kay in the center of the group, her head high, with a fixed smile on her face and dawning comprehension in her eyes, saying quietly:
"You seem to have had rather a thrilling time! But if you've used up father's best cow-hand he isn't going to like it."
But even Bessie knew no more than that. She did not know, for instance, that Kay had come quietly home after that, gone quietly upstairs, undressed and got into bed, or that she could not grieve, because Tom had left her nothing to grieve about. If he had died he would have left her some illusions, but he had only got drunk and disgraced her.
