In the hall below he looked about him with satisfaction. For the last three days he had labored tirelessly to fit the place for the evening’s event. The parlor now showed walls rimmed with straight-back chairs and the grand piano—long ago put in order—had been relegated to the library. That instinct for the artistic, which had made him a last resort in the vexing problems of club entertainments, had aided him in the Court’s adornment. [Pg 276]Thick branches of holly, axed from the hollows by Uncle Jefferson, lined the balustrade of the stairway, the burnished green of ivy leaves was twined with the prisms of the chandelier in the big yellow-hung parlor, and bands of twisted laurel were festooned along the upper walls. The massed green was a setting for a prodigal use of flowers. Everywhere wild blossoms showed their spreading clusters, and he had searched every corner of the estate, even climbing the ragged forest slope, to the tawdry edge of Hell’s Half-Acre, to plunder each covert of its hidden blooms. He had intended at first to use only the wild flowers, but that morning Ranston had arrived from Rosewood with a load of red roses that had made him gasp with delight. Now these painted the whole a splendid riotous crimson. They stood banked in windows and fireplaces. Great clumps nodded from shadowed corners and a veritable bower of them waited for the musicians at the end of the hall. Through the whole house wreathed the sweet rose-scent, mingled with the frailer fragrance of the wildings. John Valiant drew a single great red beauty from its brethren and fastened it in his button-hole. Out in the kitchens Cassandra’s egg-beating clattered like a watchman’s rattle, while Aunt Daphne put the finishing touches to an array of lighter edibles destined to grace the long table on [Pg 277]the rear porch, now walled in with snow-white muslin and hung with candle-lusters. Under the trees Uncle Jefferson was even then experimenting with various punch compounds, and a delicious aroma of vanilla came to Valiant’s nostrils together with Aunt Daphne’s wrathful voice: “Heah, yo’ Greenie Simms! Whah yo’ gwine?” “Ain’ gwine nowhah. Ah’s done been whah Ah’s gwine.” “Yo’ set down dat o’ange er Ah’ll smack yo’ bardaciously ovah! Ef yo’ steals, what gwineter become ob yo’ soul?” “Don’ know nuffin’ ’bout mah soul,” responded the ebony materialist. “But Ah knows Ah got er body, ’cause Ah buttons et up e’vy day, en Ah lakes et plump.” “Yo’ go back en wuk fo’ yo’ quahtah yankin’ on dat ar ice-cream freezah,” decreed Aunt Daphne exasperatedly, “er yo’ don’ git er smell ter-night. Yo’ heah dat!” The threat proved efficacious, for Greenie, muttering sullenly that she “didn’ nebbah feel no sky-lark in de ebenin’,” returned to her labors.