The guests might
be uninteresting, of the Lily Leavitt sort, and the artists might be
so called only by themselves. The room might be over-gorgeous by
daylight, but it was beautiful thus lighted, with a rosy radiance from
above, bringing out the whiteness of damask, the snow purity of
camellias crowding a crystal bowl, and the ruby splendour of
strawberries piled on their own leaves.
What a wonderful sight after months of the Hands restaurant and free
lunches with five-cent chocolate in busy drug stores! Oh, yes, she was
glad she had come, and she must look, look, look at this beautiful
picture, so that she might remember its details and hold it before her
eyes, like a delicately painted transparency, in front of future
realities.
But it was in carrying out this intention, in taking in the details,
that Win's heart suddenly bounded and then missed a beat. The table
had two chairs drawn up to it. It was small and round, and on it only
two places were laid.
Win turned her head and looked for Lily Leavitt. Lily was not there,
neither was the tall, respectable servant. But a smiling man in
evening dress was just coming into the room with the ingratiating air
of one who is a little late for an appointment.
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