The opened door admitted more than David Randall. It let in a snowy gust
that beat upon Clancy's bosom, rendering her more conscious than even a
masculine presence could that the dress she wore was new to her
experience. Randall was almost blown through the doorway. He turned and
forced the door closed. Turning again, he recognized Clancy, who had
retreated, a pink picture of embarrassment, to the foot of the
staircase.
"Do I frighten you?" he asked dryly.
Clancy recovered the self-possession that never deserted her for long.
"No one does that," she retorted.
"I believe you," said Randall. His good-humored face wore a slightly
pathetic expression. If no man is a hero to his valet, still less is he
to the woman for whom he has conceived a sudden devotion which is as yet
unreturned.
Clancy dropped him a courtesy.
"Thank you," she said, "for believing me."
He moved toward her, holding out his big hands. Clancy permitted them to
envelop one of hers. Randall bowed over it. His face, when he lifted it,
was red.
Blushes are as contagious as measles. Clancy was grateful for the cry
from above.
"Miss Deane," called Sophie Carey, "who is it?"
"Mr. Randall," Clancy called back.
"Send him into the dining-room. Tell him that there are no cocktails,
but Scotch and soda are on the sideboard. Come up, won't you? And tell
David to answer the door-bell."
Clancy turned to Randall. His mouth sagged open the least bit. He looked
disappointed.
"Don't mind," she whispered. "We'll have it by and by."
"Have what?" he asked blankly.
"The _tête-à-tête_ you want." She laughed. Then she wheeled and ran up
the stairs, leaving him staring after her, wondering if she were the
sweetly simple country maiden that she had appeared last night, or a
wise coquette.
Mrs. Carey, still in the bedroom, where she was, by twisting her lithe,
luscious figure, managing to hook up her dress in the back, smiled at
Clancy's entrance.
"Is he overwhelmed?" she asked.
Clancy grinned entrancingly. Then she became suddenly demure.
"He--liked me," she admitted.
"He would; they all would," said Mrs. Carey.
She managed the last hook as Clancy offered her aid. She glanced at
herself in the mirror, wriggled until the blue frock set more evenly
over the waist-line, then turned to Clancy.
"Your hair--I said I'd fix it. Come here," she commanded.
Meekly, Clancy obeyed.
Deftly, Mrs. Carey unfastened Clancy's hair. It was of a soft texture,
hung softly to her hips, and seemed, despite its softness, to have an
electric, flashing quality. Mrs. Carey's eyes lighted. She was,
primarily, an artist. Which means that people were rarely individuals to
her. They were subjects. Clancy was a subject now. And a satisfying
subject, Mrs. Carey thought, for if the girl had been transformed by the
low-cut evening gown, so, by the severe coiffure that her hostess
rearranged, was she even more transformed. Mrs. Carey looked at her and
shook her head.
"The baby stare went out of fashion on the day that the baby vampire
came in," she said. "But you've achieved a combination, Miss Deane."
"Vampires" were not popular in Zenith. Clancy did not know whether to be
shocked or pleased. She decided to be pleased.
The door-bell had rung several times during the process of fixing
Clancy's hair, and from the down-stairs part of the house came
occasional gleeful shouts. Now Mrs. Carey and Clancy descended. They
entered the dining-room. A stout, bald gentleman, who, Clancy would
learn later, was a Supreme Court judge, lifted a glass and toasted Mrs.
Carey.
"Our lovely hostess. May her eyes always be dry, but her cellar never!"
Mrs. Carey laughed.
"You are committing a crime, Judge," she said.
"But not vandalism, Mrs. Carey," he retorted. "Some day, the seekers of
evil where there is none are coming to this house. They are going to
raid you, Mrs. Carey. And what liquor they find here they will pour into
the gutters."
He beamed upon Clancy, set down his glass, and advanced to her.
"Little stranger," he said, "there are many wicked, wicked men in this
room to-night. I don't know where Mrs. Carey finds them or why she
associates with them. Let us go into a corner while I explain to you why
you should know no one in this vile city but myself."
A portly, good-humored-looking woman, who seemed to be bursting from her
corsage, tapped the judge on the shoulder.
"Tom, you behave," she said.
The judge sighed. He took Clancy's unresisting hand and lifted it to his
lips. His wife, the portly woman, snatched Clancy's hand away.
"Don't pay any attention to him," she said. "He's really an old, old man
approaching senility. I know, because I'm married to him. I myself, when
a deluded young girl, decided to be a rich old man's darling instead of
a poor young man's slave. It was a mistake," she whispered hoarsely.
"Youth should never be tied to age."
The judge inflated his huge chest.
"Miss--Miss----"
"Miss Deane," said Sophie Carey; "Judge and Mrs. Walbrough."
Clancy, a bit fussed by the judge's heavy good humor, managed to bow.
"Ah--Miss Deane!" said the judge. "Well, Miss Deane, if you are as
sensible as, despite your beauty, you seem to be, you will pay no
attention to the maunderings of the woman who calls herself my wife. As
a matter of fact, though she does not suspect it, I married her out of
pity. She was much older than myself, and possessed a large fortune,
which she did not know how to administer. And so I----"
Mrs. Walbrough took Clancy's hand. She pushed her husband away. And
Clancy noticed that the hand that pushed lingered to caress. She
suddenly adored the judge and loved his wife.