by the fire and looked on, enjoying himself, waiting for Hildegarde.
And when she came in simple white with a knot of violets on her shoulder, he liked the fact that she took the center of the stage—took it not because of super-elegance and opulence, but because she was, in effect, the heroine of the drama, the leading lady. As she went from one guest to the other, greeting them, she was for him no dearer, than she had been when, in the old farmhouse, she had greeted the Skinners.
She went out to dinner on the arm of a distinguished diplomat. Crispin took Sally. Hildegarde had managed that and had put Meriweather on the other side of Sally, who was in her liveliest mood.
"Hildegarde is wearing Merry's violets, did you know it?" she demanded of Crispin.
He had not known it. And anyhow what did it matter? She was his! So he said to Sally easily:
"There are flowers that she likes better than violets."
"What are they?"
"I shan't tell you. Meriweather might hear."
Meriweather, turning at the sound of his name, asked, "What might I hear?"
"Hildegarde's favorite flower. Crispin knows it, and it isn't violets. And it serves you right, Merry, for sending them to her instead of to me. She didn't tell me where they came from, but I was up in her room and saw the card with your name."
Meriweather flushed. Sally's frankness had ceased to be amusing.
She was aware she had gone too far, and saved the situation. "Somebody lend me a pencil," she begged.
