A retinue of imported men, Caucasian at
that, served dinner at six small tables, six at a table; the viands were
fashioned to tickle tired epicures; there was vintage champagne such as
kings quaff to pledge the comity of nations; Wissner's little band of
artists, known to command its own price, divinely mingled melody with
the rose-sweetness of the air. West, having dined beautifully, and
lingered over coffee in the smoking-room among the last, emerged to find
the polished floors crowded with an influx of new guests, come to
enliven the dance. His was, as ever, a Roman progress; he stopped and
was stopped everywhere; like a happy opportunist, he plucked the flowers
as they came under his hand, and gayly whirled from one measure to
another. So the glorious evening was half spent before, in an
intermission, he found himself facing Sharlee Weyland, who was
uncommonly well attended, imploring her hand for the approaching waltz.
Without the smallest hesitation, Sharlee drew her ornamental pencil
through the next name on her list, and ordered her flowers and fan
transferred from the hands of Mr.
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