Della experimented. Cecily looked over their heads at her own hair, combed heavily back in dark waves, at her own cheeks faintly pink with cold. She had it in mind to disdain rouge, but Fliss’s professionalism was tantalizing. She opened her little gold case and gave her cheeks a touch of red below the cheek bone. “You don’t need it, Cecily. You’re better without,” said Fliss, observing. “Cecily’s always better looking than anybody else,” contributed Madeline. “You really are, Cecily.” Della gave Cecily a critical glance. “It’s much easier for a brunette,” she sighed. That brought her the anticipated compliments from the rest. Cecily did not join them. She was watching Fliss and Della, suddenly mindful that it had not been so long ago when Fliss was more or less outside of all this easy fun. She looked back over the obvious steps of the progress Fliss had made. Funny! And that queer-looking woman in the soiled kimono dying of cancer; and out there Matthew waiting for his wife to take her to their hostess, to pay her honor. She wasn’t worth it. Walter waiting for his wife, for the girl who had pulled him out of college into marriage, who had probably tricked him, who had no respect for marriage. She wasn’t worth it, either! Worth what? She caught her mind back and began to talk to Madeline as they strolled out into the little reception room to meet their husbands. At dinner she sat between Freddy Craig and Howard Ensign--rather on the dull side of the table. Fliss above and across from her had Dick and Gordon Ames, and Della on the right of her host was dividing her attentions between him and Matthew. Cecily talked at random, intermittent, necessary conversation, her mind and eyes straying to the brightness of Fliss. She seemed so eager and Dick seemed so pleased by her eagerness and so alert. She couldn’t make it out. No right--no wrong. Why can’t I be like the rest of them, she thought, immediately conscious that to be like the rest of them was just what she did not want. Fliss was telling Dick something _sotto voce_. He listened closely and then broke into irrepressible laughter. Fliss looked at him provocatively and his eyes were slanting down at her in that amused, liking way. Howard Ensign was following Cecily’s eyes. “Isn’t Mrs. Allenby a lot of fun?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” answered Cecily, mechanically, “lots of fun.” “She gives everybody such a good time.” Fun. That was it. Fun, that god whom they all worshiped. Like a heathen god, like a great bright image, casting great shadows. Queer thought. She sat in the shadow while they worshiped the brightness. An impulse came to Cecily to call to Fliss to stop. She was pinning a flower in Dick’s buttonhole. It was a wager or a joke. Everybody was laughing. She had no right to touch Dick like that. Dick didn’t care. Dick had no pride, no self-respect, no respect for love,--or he wouldn’t let her touch him like that. She was caressing him.