And that was nothing to the way in which the owners of all these
several habiliments were wedged inside. First came the dome of
Peter's bald head surmounting his merry face, then the top of Miss
Felicia's pompadour, with its tiny diamond spark bobbing about as
she laughed and moved her head in saluting her guests and then
mobs and mobs of young people packed tight, looking for all the
world like a matinee crowd leaving a theatre (that is when you
crane your neck to see over their heads), except that the guests
were without their wraps and were talking sixteen to the dozen,
and as merry as they could be.
"They are all here, Major," Peter cried, dragging me inside. It
was wonderful how young and happy he looked. "Miss Corinne, and
that loud Hullaballoo, Garry Minott, we saw prancing around at the
supper--you remember--Holker gave him the ring."
"And Miss MacFarlane?" I asked.
"Ruth! Turn your head, my boy, and take a look at her. Isn't she a
picture? Did you ever see a prettier girl in all your life, and
one more charmingly dressed? Ruth, this is the Major .
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