Merry felt his point was proved when, on the night of the ball, he came down early and had the place quite to himself. He was a house guest. Winslow had, of late, been friendly enough to his rival. The time for jealousy seemed past. The Wolf was, indeed, secure in the thought that he was making Red Ridinghood happy. Sally, lapping up luxury as a kitten laps cream, had not time for old love affairs. And Winslow knew enough of human nature to realize that the less emphasis he placed on his fiancée's feeling for Merry the better. If he were slighted and set aside, she might feel called upon to come to his defense.
So Merry, alone in the ballroom, studied the decorative effect and once more commended Winslow's taste. The whole scheme was French—garlands of roses tied with lover's-knots of blue, gold chairs, pale brocades, thousands of candles in crystal chandeliers. Electricity there was, of course, for additional illumination but the thing was so cunningly accomplished that the effect was of sunlight, and the shepherdesses and shepherds on the Fragonard panels seemed bathed in it.
Sally, too, as she came into the room, was a shepherdess bathed in light—her hair powdered, rose silk panniers over azure, patches on her pink cheeks, a little hat with floating ribbons,= a ribbon-tied crook. She had been wise enough not to let Winslow load her with jewels, or perhaps it had been his taste to show her to society in elegant simplicity.
Merry's own costume was simple—a dark wig tied at the back with a ribbon, black satin coat and knee
