“Jane Ward,” she heard Flora say. “Jane Ward. Mrs. John Ward’s daughter.”
“John Ward’s daughter?” Jane heard him reply. “Didn’t know there was another.” He was staring at her over the orchids. “Pretty little filly.”
Jane felt unaccountably exhilarated. She looked up at an old lady who was asking for tea, with a ravishing smile.
“Doesn’t Muriel look lovely?” she said politely. The old lady must at least know Muriel.
“Muriel who?” said the old lady. But Jane was not discouraged. She went on smiling and trying to talk. Pretty little filly, he had said.
Freddy Waters came in with three young men. He brought them up to Jane.
“They want tea,” he said, and introduced them.
Jane realized at once that she had been so excited that she hadn’t heard their names. But she smiled very steadfastly.
Pretty little filly. Very soon the young men were laughing. One of them pretended that the massive hot-water kettle was too heavy for her to lift. He filled the empty teapot himself. Jane thought he was awfully attractive. She felt her cheeks growing hot in the crowded room. She hoped they were growing pinker. More young men came in. Her unknown swains introduced them. Jane didn’t hear their names, either. One of them brought her some pink punch.
“There’s a stick in it,” he said, smiling.
Jane felt quite daring, drinking it. She glanced across at Flora. Flora was drinking it too. She was surrounded by young men. The old ones had all gone. Two elderly ladies were waiting for their chocolate, a bit impatiently. They got it, finally, from the caterer’s man.
The room was very hot, and very, very noisy. Jane had to scream to be heard. It was easier to talk when you screamed, she discovered, much easier than in a silent room. When you screamed, things seemed funny.
Presently there was a little disturbance at the dining-room door. Lots of young men came in, and then Muriel. Muriel looked flushed and terribly excited. Her cheeks were rose pink. She was waving her sweet peas and laughing at everyone. Close behind her was Mr. Bert Lancaster. He looked old, Jane thought, among all those gay young people, but awfully handsome. His moustache was just right. It was waxed, the least little bit, at the ends. There was a white sweet pea in his buttonhole.
He cleared the way for Muriel to the tea-table. The crowd was thinning out. Muriel patted Jane’s shoulder.
“Tired, darling?” she asked, Mr. Lancaster offered her a cup of tea. She shook her head. “I want something cold.”
One of the young men sprang to get some punch. When he came back with it, Mr. Lancaster took the glass cup out of his hand and gave it to Muriel himself. The young man glared resentfully. Muriel smiled up into the eyes of Mr. Lancaster and drank the punch with little gasps of delight.
“I was so thirsty,” she said. “I’m awfully hot.”
Mr. Lancaster took her arm very gently, just above the elbow. He steered her through what was left of the crowd to the bay window at the end of the room. He opened the sash a little. Muriel stood leaning against the red velvet window curtains, fanning herself with her sweet peas. Mr. Lancaster was bending over her, his eyes upon her face.
“May I have a cup of tea, Jane?” said somebody softly. Jane started and looked up. It was Flora’s mother. She had on a tiny black bonnet with one pink rose and a perky little black velvet bow that stood up behind. Her face was framed in the black lace ruff of her little cape. It looked very pale against that background and when she raised her veil, Jane thought her lips were white. In a moment, though, she was laughing with one of the young men. Her laugh was very low and silvery and her eyes were very bright. Her black dotted veil was tucked coquettishly up over her little nose. The young man seemed enslaved at once. Flora’s mother looked up into his eyes and laughed again. The young man was immensely flattered. Jane was staring up at them, just as she had stared, a moment before, at Mr. Bert Lancaster and Muriel.
“Do you know this dear child?” said Flora’s mother. She introduced the young man. Jane smiled very dutifully, but she couldn’t compete with Mrs. Furness. The young man returned to his devotion. Flora’s mother put her teacup down. The tea was untasted. Two more young men were talking to her now. She turned to leave the room and all three went with her.
Jane’s eyes returned to Muriel. She was still standing with Mr. Lancaster by the window. He was talking to her, very earnestly, but Muriel’s eyes were wandering brightly over the crowd. She was not bothering much to listen to him. Jane returned to her tea-pouring.
Suddenly she saw Rosalie enter the room. She walked straight over to Muriel and she looked very much provoked. She said something sharply and Muriel turned away with her toward the door. Mr. Lancaster followed.
“You’ve got to stay in line with Mamma,” said Rosalie angrily, as they passed Jane’s elbow. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
They walked toward the door together. Mr. Lancaster was strolling behind them pulling his moustache and smiling. On the threshold they almost ran into Flora’s mother. She spoke at once to Mr. Lancaster and smiled, very prettily, up into his face. He answered rather briefly, and, after a moment. Flora’s mother turned away with her three young men. Mr. Lancaster followed Muriel into the parlour.
Jane heard an excited whisper in her ear.
“Did you see that?” It was Isabel. Jane thoroughly despised her. She felt terribly sorry for Flora’s mother and she hated Mr. Bert Lancaster. But, most of all, she despised herself for having seen it. She had seen it all, she had stared at it, just like Isabel. It quite spoiled the end of the reception.
