Pamela's little five o'clock tea-table always stood in the south
bow-window, situated at an angle that commanded Dupont Circle and the
wide stretch of Massachusetts Avenue, where, at that hour, the long
rows of electric lights showed like stars through the dusk of an early
December evening.
Here and there the red eyes of an approaching motor emerged from the
distance, or an equipage, gorgeous with ambassadorial liveries, dashed
past. It was a bird's-eye glimpse, the external aspect of the absorbing
gayety of the gay capital city. Pamela's little drawing-room, with its
rich-toned mahogany, its ancient Turkey rugs, its one or two heavily
framed portraits of old Van Citterses of Knickerbocker fame, was like a
quiet haven where one could look out upon the passing show. The samovar
and the more antique Delft teapot had belonged to Paul's grandmother,
while the delicate shell-like cups ornamented with little Dutch
windmills were objects of envy to her feminine friends.
Aware that her possessions had the value of being both charming and
unique, Pamela made tea with that languid grace which permits the
recipient to examine both the teapot and the sugar-tongs as well as the
lovely turn of the tea-maker's wrist.
She had lighted only one of the low candelabra on her table, for,
although it was nearly six o'clock, she and Mrs. Prynne were drinking
tea alone. Pamela had been dragging out a miserable half-hour trying
to entertain the pretty widow, who, in the absence of a masculine
audience, lost her sparkle as quickly as evaporating champagne.
Mrs. Prynne selected a small bonbon and nibbled it placidly. "Did you
know the Billops were back from New York?" she inquired between nibbles.
"Oh, of course!" Pamela looked distinctly bored. "You know she's a
cousin of Paul's mother or his grandmother, Heaven knows which, and she
and Sidney have taken their old apartments and she's got that little
French maid of hers who does such wonderful salads. You remember, the
one Sidney kissed in the Astrys' pantry?"
"I should think it bad enough to be kissed by Sidney without having to
do his mother's back hair!"
"Pshaw, it's nothing but a transformation; she got it at Devigné's."
Pamela was in a mood to strip conventionalities down to the naked spars.
"I've been told she's perfectly bald," rejoined Mrs. Prynne
interestedly. "What do you suppose caused it?"
"Perhaps some one pulled it out; it wouldn't surprise me."
"It couldn't have been her late husband!" Mrs. Prynne giggled.
Pamela looked scornful. "My dear Lottie, he married her for her money,
and he used to look like the bald-headed eagle at the Zoo,--captivity
made him vicious,--but Dr. Macclesfield hints that it was Cousin Addie
who did the hair-pulling."
Mrs. Prynne gazed absently out of the window. Twilight had deepened,
the white lamps shone more clearly, the gay procession passed and
repassed between them. "Don't you think she says dreadfully suggestive
things about people--sometimes?" she ventured cautiously.
"She's a terrible gossip, if you mean that. I told Paul the other day
that to let Mrs. Billop into a bit of scandal was like dropping a soda
cracker into a bowl of hot milk; she fairly soaks it up."
"I suppose we're all terrible gossips, but--well, really she scares me."
"Oh, I don't listen to her unless I have to." Pamela was looking
superior, but she was really experiencing a keen feeling of alarm; what
in the world was Lottie leading up to?
Mrs. Prynne sipped her tea daintily, still looking out of the
window. A big hat of violet velvet furnished a charming frame for her
delicately tinted face. "I really think she says things--she shouldn't."
"It's usually Sidney who tattles. Paul says he was brought up on a
trundle-bed and catnip tea and he can't offer any mental resistance.
Yet we all have him about, we warm the serpent in our bosoms!"
"But it wasn't Sidney who said it."