Last night I went to my first dinner-party since Aunt Matilda’s death.  In Kitty’s car I watched with interest, on the way to her house, the long stretches of dingy streets, then cleaner ones, with their old and comfortable houses; the park, with its bare trees and shrubs, and finally the Avenue, with its smooth paving and pretentious homes, its hurrying cars of luxurious make, its air of conscious smartness.  As contrast to my present home it interested greatly.

Kitty’s house is very beautiful.  She is that rare person who knows she does not know, and the house, bought for her by her father as a wedding-gift, she had put in the hands of proper authorities for its furnishings.  It is not the sort of home I would care to have, but it is undeniably handsome, and undoubtedly Kitty understands the art of entertaining.

Her dinner-party was rather a large one, its honor guest an English writer whose books are unendurably dull; but any sort of lion is helpful in reducing social obligations, and for that purpose Kitty had captured him.  She insisted on my coming, but begged me not to mention horrid things, like poor people and politics and babies who died from lack of intelligent care, but to talk books.

“So few of the others talk books, except novels, and he thinks most modern novels rotten,” she had told me over the telephone.  “So please come and splash out something about these foreign writers whose names I can’t remember.  Bergyson is one, I believe, and Brerr another, and France-Ana—­Ana something France.  He’s a man.  And there’s another one.  Mater. . .  Yes, that’s it.  Maeterlinck.  And listen:  Wear that white crepe you wore at my wedding; it’s frightfully plain, but all your other things are black.  I don’t see why you still wear black.  Aunt Matilda hated it.”

As I went up-stairs to take off my wraps I smiled at Kitty’s instructions.  In her room she hastily kissed me.

“Do hurry and come down.  I’m so afraid he’ll come before the others, and I might have to talk to him.  Literary people are the limit, and this one, they say, is the worst kind.  Billy refuses to leave his room until you go down; says he’d rather be sent to jail than left alone with him ten minutes.  He met him at the club.”

Holding me off, she surveyed me critically.  “You look very well.  That’s a good-looking dress.  It suits you.  I believe you wear pearls and these untrimmed things just to bring out your hair and eyes.  Nobody but you could do it.”

Stopping her short, quick sentences, she leaned forward.  “There he is, coming up the steps with Mr. Alexander.  Come on; they’re inside.  We can go down now.  By the way”—­she pinned the orchids at her waist with unnecessary attention—­“Selwyn got back yesterday.  He will be here to-night.  Dick Moran is sick, and Selwyn is taking his place.  At first he declined to come.  For weeks he’s been going nowhere, but he finally promised.  Are you ready?”