"All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes toward the elevator.The old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever.
On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles an hour through the snow of the evening, were three others, all related.
"First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor was announcing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron and jacket.
"I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, a black-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed a euchre hand away from her.
"Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all that fine raiment can make.
"Oh, not yet," she answered."I don't want to play any more, though."
"Jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what good clothing can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie--it's coming up."
Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking at a little jewel-faced watch.Her husband studied her, for beauty, even cold, is fascinating from one point of view.
"Well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said."It only takes two weeks to get to Rome."
Mrs.Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled.It was so nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man--one whose financial state had borne her personal inspection.
"Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked Jessica, "if it keeps up like this?"
"Oh, yes," answered her husband."This won't make any difference."
Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also of Chicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty.Even now he did not hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it.With a specially conjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face wholly away.It was not wifely modesty at all.
By so much was her pride satisfied.