The three Marguerites,—­grandmother, mother, and daughter,—­standing side by side and dressed each like each as nearly as was fitting, had awaited their guests.  Three high-born fragile natures, solitary each on the stem of its generation; not made for blasts and rudeness.  They had received their guests with the graciousness of sincere souls and not without antique distinction; for in their veins flowed blood which had helped to make manners gentle in France centuries ago.

The eldest Marguerite introduced some of her aged friends, who had ventured forth to witness the launching of the frail life-boat, to the youngest; the youngest Marguerite introduced some of hers to the eldest; the Marguerite linked between made some of hers known to her mother and to her child.

Mrs. Conyers arrived early, leaning on the arm of her grandson, Victor Fielding.  To-night she was ennobled with jewels—­the old family jewels of her last husband’s family, not of her own.

When the three Marguerites beheld her, a shadow fell on their faces.  The change was like the assumption of a mask behind which they could efface themselves as ladies and receive as hostesses.  While she lingered, they forebore even to exchange glances lest feelings injurious to a guest should be thus revealed:  so pure in them was the strain of courtesy that went with proffered hospitality. (They were not of the kind who invite you to their houses and having you thus in their power try to pierce you with little insults which they would never dare offer openly in the street:  verbal Borgias at their own tables and firesides.) The moment she left them, the three faces became effulgent again.

A little later, strolling across the rooms toward them alone, came Judge Morris, a sprig of wet heliotrope in his button-hole, plucked from one of Marguerite’s plants.  The paraffin starch on his shirt front and collar and cuffs gave to them the appearance and consistency of celluloid—­it being the intention of his old laundress to make him indeed the stiffest and most highly polished gentleman of his high world.  His noble face as always a sermon on kindness, sincerity, and peace; yet having this contradiction, that the happier it seemed, the sadder it was to look at:  as though all his virtues only framed his great wrong; so that the more clearly you beheld the bright frame, the more deeply you felt the dark picture.

As soon as they discovered him, the Marguerites with a common impulse linked their arms endearingly.  Six little white feet came regimentally forward; each of six little white hands made individual forward movements to be the first to lie within his palm; six velvet eyes softened and glistened.

Miss Anna came with Harriet; Professor Hardage came alone; Barbee—­burgeoning Alcibiades of the ballroom—­came with Self-Confidence.  He strolled indifferently toward the eldest Marguerite, from whom he passed superiorly to the central one; by that time the third had vanished.