As he stood looking on the scene of splendor, he felt lost, lonely, and for a moment homesick.  Here all was formal, stiff repressed; that gayety was real, that merriment was sincere.  With all their crudeness, those people in that condition were all human, hearty, strong, real.  He wondered if refinement and elegance meant necessarily a suppression of all these.  There, men came not only to enjoy but to make others enjoy as well.  No stranger could have stood a moment alone without some one stepping to his side and drawing him into a friendly talk.  This mood soon changed.

Still, standing alone near the door waiting for Norman to appear, Keith found entertainment watching the groups, the splendidly dressed women, clustered here and there or moving about inspecting or speaking to each other.  One figure at the far end of the room attracted his eye again and again.  She was standing with her back partly toward him, but he knew that she was a pretty woman as well as a handsome one, though he saw her face only in profile, and she was too far off for him to see it very well.  Her hair was arranged simply; her head was set beautifully on her shoulders.  She was dressed in black, the bodice covered with spangles that with her slightest movement shimmered and reflected the light like a coat of flexible mail.  A number of men were standing about her, and many women, as they passed, held out their hands to her in the way that ladies of fashion have.  Keith saw Mrs. Wentworth approach her, and a very animated conversation appeared to take place between them, and the lady in black turned quickly and gazed about the room; then Mrs. Wentworth started to move away, but the other caught and held her, asking her something eagerly.  Mrs. Wentworth must have refused to answer, for she followed her a few steps; but Mrs. Wentworth simply waved her hand to her and swept away with her escort, laughing back at her over her shoulder.

Keith made his way around the room toward Mrs. Wentworth.  There was something about the young lady in black which reminded him of a girl he had once seen standing straight and defiant, yet very charming, in a woodland path under arching pine-boughs.  Just then, however, a waltz struck up and Mrs. Wentworth began to dance, so Keith stood leaning against the wall.  Presently a member of a group of young men near Keith said: 

“The Lancaster looks well to-night.”

“She does.  The old man’s at home, Ferdy’s on deck.”

“Ferdy be dashed!  Besides, where is Mrs. Went—?”

“Don’t lay any money on that.”

“She’s all right.  Try to say anything to her and you’ll find out.”

The others laughed; and one of them asked: 

“Been trying yourself, Stirling?”

“No.  I know better, Minturn.”

“Why doesn’t she shake Ferdy then?” demanded the other.  “He’s always hanging around when he isn’t around the other.”

“Oh, they have been friends all their lives.  She is not going to give up a friend, especially when others are getting down on him.  Can’t you allow anything to friendship?”