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Updated: May 31, 2025
But his suppressed eloquence was lost upon his hearer, for Donald had become absorbed in a theatrical poster, which represented a preternaturally slim young lady, poised on a champagne bottle, coyly surveying an admiring world through the extended fingers of a small black gloved hand. It was "La Florine," whose charms he had heard recounted times without number by Mr. Cropsie Decker.
When Cropsie Decker's explosive epistle had arrived telling him of his indictment, of Margery's broken engagement, of Lee Dillingham's treachery, his first thought was not of his wrongs, but of the fact that they would necessitate his going home. He did not stop to realize that going home meant but one thing to him.
It would only be necessary to present his card and mention Cropsie Decker, and the rest would be easy. He had just about enough money to pay for a theater ticket, and a cozy little supper afterward. But what about flowers? He thrust his hand eagerly into his pocket on an investigating tour. As he did so his ringers encountered a small, hard object which he drew forth and looked at curiously.
Something's gone wrong in the belfry to-day. Is my face swollen, Mater?" Mrs. Ivy bent over him in instant solicitude. "I do believe it is swollen, darling; just here. Look, Mr. Decker, doesn't it seem a trifle fuller than the other side?" Cropsie Decker's eye, not being trained by years of maternal solicitude, failed to distinguish any difference.
The clinging gown of pale green that fell in loose lines from her shoulders was veiled in deep-toned lace, revealing her round white throat and long shapely arms, bare from shoulder to finger tips. Horton smiled unconsciously as he watched her eager, responsive face, and felt the suppressed vitality in every movement of her slender body. "Who is she?" he asked of Cropsie Decker, who stood near.
Suddenly she held out her hand to Cropsie. "I can't stand it another minute! I've got to dance once if I never dance again!" Every eye in the ballroom followed the slender figure, as it circled in and out among the throng. Miss Lady danced with the grace and abandonment of a child. She had given herself utterly to the joy of the moment.
She was letting herself go for the first time since her marriage, following the glad impulse of her heart, and dancing as a Bacchante might have danced alone on a moonlight night in some forest glade. When at last the music stopped Cropsie drew her into the conservatory. "Here, come around this palm, quick! They'll all be after you for the next dance.
He clipped, pasted and pinned, looked up statistics, verified statements and ruthlessly weeded out every little vagrant fancy that dared intrude on the solemn company of facts. But his efforts when finished bore the same relation to Cropsie's that a pile of bricks does to a house. Only once had he set Cropsie and his lapboard literature aside, and followed his own impulse.
"Cropsie Decker starts for the coast to-morrow but the steamer doesn't sail for ten days. Shall I go or stay?" "But you were so mad about it two weeks ago, you could scarcely wait to start." "Lots of things can happen in two weeks. Shall I stay?" "What do your family think about it?" "My family? Oh, you mean my sister. She doesn't make a habit of losing sleep over my affairs.
She flashed a questioning glance at him, then she looked away: "No," she said, "he doesn't care for it." Cropsie Decker, who had been hovering in her vicinity, now came up and claimed the next number. "There's a bully little corner in the conservatory where we can sit out this waltz. You won't mind if I carry her off, Mr. Horton?"
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