"Thank you, Tom, you're so good to think of it, but----"
"But what?"
"Would you mind going alone? I find it very pleasant sitting on your
veranda, or I'll get a book."
"Very well, if you don't want to go, I don't. I haven't had a dance for
three months and I'm still addicted to it. But of course----"
"I think I'd like to go." Harkless acquiesced at once, with a cheerful
voice and a lifeless eye, and the good Tom felt unaccountably mean in
persisting.
They drove out into the country through mists like lakes, and found
themselves part of a procession of twinkling carriage-lights, and cigar
sparks shining above open vehicles, winding along the levels like a canoe
fete on the water. In the entrance hall of the club-house they encountered
Miss Hinsdale, very handsome, large, and dark, elaborately beaming and
bending toward them warmly.
"Who do you think is here?" she said.
"Gomez?" ventured Meredith.
"Helen Sherwood!" she cried. "Go and present Mr. Harkless before Brainard
Macauley takes her away to some corner."