He's going off in the other direction, anyway."
Mrs. Bates touched her elbow. "Who's that dark girl in pink? No; not to
the left--straight ahead."
"Why, I declare, it's Rosy!" exclaimed Jane. "And doesn't she look
lovely! She's the prettiest girl here, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"And how well that little curly-cue curl on her forehead keeps its shape!
But do you think she should have worn Marechal Niels?"
"I dare say she's had red until she is tired of them. Who is the young
man with her?"
"Don't know," said Jane. "These new young men are getting to be too many
for _me_."
"Well, then, I'll tell you. It's Arthur Paston."
"Arthur Scodd-Paston?" asked Jane, contributing a conscientious hyphen to
the name and a laborious accent to the forepart of it. "Why, he doesn't
look so very hateful and supercilious."
"Oh, he's never that. He's a nice enough fellow. You mustn't take all my
exaggerations seriously. He's jolly and pleasant, as you see for
yourself."
"He'd better be--with Rosamund. She won't stand any great 'I' and little
'u' from anybody. But he does look real nice and stout and healthy and
rosy, and everything, doesn't he?"
"Especially rosy," said Mrs. Bates, wickedly.
"I'm ashamed of you," remonstrated Jane; and the two young people swept
on, while the music swirled and crashed, and the vast illumined ceiling
bent above them like a rainbow of promise.
During one of the promenades Truesdale passed by with Bertie Patterson on
his arm.
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