brocade with many glittering stones—and it made him more than ever an icicle.
There were a dozen guests for dinner, and there were other dinner parties whose guests would come on for the dance. Hildegarde, sitting next to Meriweather, ate and drank like a person in a dream. Winslow's great house had been a revelation. It was so beautiful it made her heart beat almost to suffocation. All the things she had ever read, all the poems, seemed packed into it. Its richness, fragrance, color, gave her tonight a feeling of pure ecstasy.
When she came later into the ballroom with her father, she was aware of the attention they attracted. Yet even she could not know the full effect of the sensation their appearance made—he with his furry cap with pointed ears, his goat's skin and his Pan's pipes, his wild gaiety of manner, his lighted eyes; she, reflecting the wild charm of him, and adding to it her own naiveté and young beauty.
Everybody was talking about them. So this was Carew's daughter! She looked like Louis. Was like him. What a pair they made—faun and dryad!
Louis, elated over Hildegarde's success, told Meriweather: "It's surprising how she keeps her head. She might have done this sort of thing all her life. Nothing awkward about her. Blood will tell, Merry."
Merry was not dancing—his arm made it impossible. When he left Carew, he went up to the balcony which overhung the ballroom. Many of the older guests were there, but he found a corner where he could sit alone and gaze down upon the dancers. If he could not dance with Hildegarde, he wanted at least
