The Dallas Browns walked; they lived in the next block.  And they brought with them a man named Harbison, that no one knew.  Anne said he would be great sport, because he was terribly serious, and had the most exaggerated ideas of society, and loathed extravagance, and built bridges or something.  She had put away her cigarettes since he had been with them—­he and Dallas had been college friends—­and the only chance she had to smoke was when she was getting her hair done.  And she had singed off quite a lot—­a burnt offering, she called it.

“My dear,” she said over the telephone, when I invited her, “I want you to know him.  He’ll be crazy about you.  That type of man, big and deadly earnest, always falls in love with your type of girl, the appealing sort, you know.  And he has been too busy, up to now, to know what love is.  But mind, don’t hurt him; he’s a dear boy.  I’m half in love with him myself, and Dallas trots around at his heels like a poodle.”

But all Anne’s geese are swans, so I thought little of the Harbison man except to hope that he played respectable bridge, and wouldn’t mark the cards with a steel spring under his finger nail, as one of her “finds” had done.

We all arrived about the same time, and Anne and I went upstairs together to take off our wraps in what had been Bella’s dressing room.  It was Anne who noticed the violets.

“Look at that!” she nudged me, when the maid was examining her wrap before she laid it down.  “What did I tell you, Kit?  He’s still quite mad about her.”

Jim had painted Bella’s portrait while they were going up the Nile on their wedding trip.  It looked quite like her, if you stood well off in the middle of the room and if the light came from the right.  And just beneath it, in a silver vase, was a bunch of violets.  It was really touching, and violets were fabulous.  It made me want to cry, and to shake Bella soundly, and to go down and pat Jim on his generous shoulder, and tell him what a good fellow I thought him, and that Bella wasn’t worth the dust under his feet.  I don’t know much about psychology, but it would be interesting to know just what effect those violets and my sympathy for Jim had in influencing my decision a half hour later.  It is not surprising, under the circumstances, that for some time after the odor of violets made me ill.

We all met downstairs in the living room, quite informally, and Dallas was banging away at the pianola, tramping the pedals with the delicacy and feeling of a football center rush kicking a goal.  Mr. Harbison was standing near the fire, a little away from the others, and he was all that Anne had said and more in appearance.  He was tall—­not too tall, and very straight.  And after one got past the oddity of his face being bronze-colored above his white collar, and of his brown hair being sun-bleached on top until it was almost yellow, one realized that he was very handsome.  He had what one might call a resolute nose and chin, and a pleasant, rather humorous, mouth.  And he had blue eyes that were, at that moment, wandering with interest over the lot of us.  Somebody shouted his name to me above the Tristan and Isolde music, and I held out my hand.