“Pleezeter meecher,” lisped Milly from a safe position halfway around her husband’s back. “I want to present you to my mother,” went on Fred Mosely. “Mother, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Forge. Mr. Forge is the one I spoke of—possibly taking my place at the office.” Mrs. Mosely was a remarkable woman. Her coiffure was a classic. Despite her sixty years, her face had an onyx beauty, unwittingly reflected in her voice. She wore silver-satin and cobweb lace. Her shrewd eye appraised both new arrivals and grasped the young country wife’s distress at once. Regardless of who or what her guests might be, first, last and foremost they were her guests always and must be put at their ease. The fine, hard old society matron extended a blue-veined hand. Milly shifted her clutch on Nat from her right hand to her left. But she didn’t let go of him. He might fly through the windows, up through the ceiling, down through the floor or explode in her face, if she failed to hang on to him. She gave the hostess the hand thus disengaged. Thereafter the next three minutes were one phonographic repetition of “pleezeter-meechers”—as though the needle had slipped on a scratched record and hiccoughed the word over and over again. Six other men and six other women smiled quietly but affected not to notice. Introductions completed, the various groups returned to their intercourse. Nathan and Milly stood apart, looking uncomfortable and feeling worse. Nathan at length shook himself free of Milly’s blood-binding clutch. Milly found her wits long enough to gasp hoarsely in her husband’s ear, “Gee, ain’t it swell, Natie! Lookit! They got a coon orchestra!” Then a moment later, “You stick by me, Natie! Don’t you go lettin’ ’em set me off by myself away with folks I don’t know!” “They’ll probably have place cards, Milly. This isn’t any Vermont church supper.” “Place cards! What’s them?” But Mrs. Mosely had noted Milly and Nathan standing alone, and remarked to a gorgeous creation in old-gold georgette and (to Milly) shocking shoulders: “For pity’s sake, Cynthia, go rescue that poor little girl in the afternoon dress. Put her at her ease, or she’ll ruin my party!” So before Nat could explain about place cards, the girl Cynthia interrupted. “Oh, Mrs. Forge!” she cried, “do let me show you the new study by Roerich that Mrs. Mosely just secured at the Aldine Galleries. I’m sure you’ll be interested.”