Among the glances given she noted but two—Longacre’s and Julia Budd’s; though theirs were the eyes least evidently on her. The girl was in great spirits, rather readier with her rich laugh than usual. Florence was almost betrayed into a straight stare of admiration, of wonder, at all she meant—the arrogance of youth in great beauty that repudiated the need of enhancement, either from the rosy cloud of chiffon in which she had clothed herself, or the mind, hardly awake, under the splendid aura of her hair. How she was sailing on the surface of life! But it occurred to Florence that when she _should_ plunge into its depths—! Longacre leaned across the table with a question to Florence, and she fancied that Julia listened to it. Her eyes and ears were unwontedly keen and sensitive for tones and expressions. The atmosphere was charged with diverse elements. The sense of cross-purposes around the table was as vivid to her mind as, to her eyes, the general disintegration upon the rising, and the confused crystallizations of people. Cissy Fitz Hugh was already complaisantly established in the back seat of Thair’s automobile when Florence came out on the veranda. Groups of men and women stood irresolutely about, as if uncertain what disposition fate was about to make of them. Julia, thrusting on a half-coat of lace, came rushing through the hall with her air of knowing exactly where she was going. “Why, pettie!” Her mother detained her by one sleeve. “You _must_ put on a thicker wrap if you are going in an open vehicle!” “But I’m not,” said Julia, with a gleam. “I’m going in the carryall.” Mrs. Budd’s helpless “Oh!” was clearly audible. At this, Cissy, whose mind had evidently contained one doubt as to who would be the other occupant of the back seat, looked contentedly at Longacre handing Julia into her chosen conveyance. He held open the door on the last glimmer of her slippers—then followed her into the carryall. Cissy’s rapid change of expression amounted to a grimace. She shot Florence a look of incredulity, craned hastily around at the carryall windows, started to speak; then she stared rather blankly at the blooming Bess who swung into the seat beside her with the confidence of belonging nowhere else. Florence looked at Thair, and he gave her almost a grin. “Place aux dames!” he lilted as the “red devil” slid past the carryall. They headed the procession down the steep drive, the sea wind in their faces, plunging through black and white shadows of moonlight and oaks, catching the flicker of the Monterey lights, finally rolling through the Del Monte gates with the electric stars overhead drawing huge, sprawling silhouettes of banana and palm on the drive in front, and a string-orchestra sounding somewhere beyond the open French windows.