"Land," she thought. "If her mama could only see her now! The swellest among the swell! And with a dress on her little back that cost that woman a hundred dollars, if it cost a cent. She's got as many partners as any of 'em--and why wouldn't she, then, I'd like to know?" Archibald had promised to look her up during the evening, but boylike had forgotten the old friend in quest of the new. She forgave him for it, though she would have liked very much to exchange impressions with somebody. Her pride was bursting for utterance. Presently he came and stood quite near her, with only the width of the corridor between them. His back was turned as he stood looking out over the ballroom floor. "Sst" called Ellen. "Psst! Mr. Archie!" She dared not leave her post for fear people would come for wraps or powder, and find only a colored woman to wait on them, which would never do. (Ellen continued to regard the colored race as a cross between the monkey and the magpie, with leanings toward the magpie.) "Psst! Hey there!" she called. But Archie's mind was far away from Ellen Neal, and he did not hear her. He was anathematizing Jakie Florsheimer of the Gents' Furnishings at the moment for not having suggested white kid gloves to him. More than once his clumsy bare hand, struggle against it as he might, had come in contact with the delicate bare shoulder of one of his partners; and Archibald felt that if such a catastrophe should occur when he was dancing with Miss Darcy, the earth might just as well open and engulf him permanently. She would never forgive him--and indeed why should she? A man ought to have known by instinct about those reverential gloves. So he stood frowning out upon the ballroom, heedless of Ellen's hisses; and in this way the old woman happened to be the unnoted witness of a rather curious scene. Mrs. Darcy came tripping down the corridor alone, for the moment, having been out to inspect preparations for supper. She did not believe in leaving so important a matter as supper entirely to the hands of paid assistants, no matter how well paid. She was resplendent in rose brocade and spangles, her small plump feet encased in cloth-of-gold, a little fishtail train of cloth-of-gold whisking behind her. Her hair positively glittered, it was so golden, and her face was overspread with a rosy bloom that always intrigued her step-daughter because of its unnatural evenness, as if she had not simply rouged, but dipped her face in a permanent elixir of youth that outdid youth itself. Joan had never caught her with her face bare, as it were, even at the most unlikely hours. Mrs. Darcy paused at sight of a young man standing by himself, gazing out with a wistful frown at the gaiety before him; and her hospitable heart smote her. She tapped his arm with her fan. "Kind o' lonesome?" she said. "Come on in and dance with me."