The lawn party was not at all dull to Margaret.  In the first place, she received a great deal of attention.  Henderson’s name was becoming very well known, and it was natural that the splendor of his advancing fortune should be reflected in the person of his young wife, whose loveliness was enhanced by her simple enjoyment of the passing hour.  Then the toilets of the women were so fresh and charming, the colors grouped so prettily on the greensward, the figures of the slender girls playing at tennis or lounging on the benches under the trees, recalled scenes from the classic poets.  It was all so rich and refined.  Nor did she miss the men of military age, whose absence Mrs. Laflamme had deplored, for she thought of her husband.  And, besides, she found even the college boys (who are always spoken of as men) amusing, and the elderly gentlemen—­upon whom watering-place society throws much responsibility—­gallant, facetious, complimentary, and active in whatever was afoot.  Their boyishness, indeed, contrasted with—­the gravity of the undergraduates, who took themselves very seriously, were civil to the young ladies,—­confidential with the married women, and had generally a certain reserve and dignity which belong to persons upon whom such heavy responsibility rests.

There were, to be sure, men who looked bored, and women who were listless, missing the stimulus of any personal interest; but the scene was so animated, the weather so propitious, that, on the whole, a person must be very cynical not to find the occasion delightful.

There was a young novelist present whose first story, “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” had made a hit the last season.  It was thought to take a profound hold upon life, because it was a book that could not be read aloud in a mixed company.  Margaret was very much interested in him, although Mr. Summers Bass was not her idea of an imaginative writer.  He was a stout young gentleman, with very black hair and small black eyes, to which it was difficult to give a melancholy cast even by an habitual frown.  Mr. Bass dressed himself scrupulously in the fashion, was very exact in his pronunciation, careful about his manner, and had the air of a little weariness, of the responsibility of one looking at life.  It was only at rare moments that his face expressed intensity of feeling.

“It is a very pretty scene.  I suppose, Mr. Bass, that you are making studies,” said Margaret, by way of opening a conversation.

“No; hardly that.  One must always observe.  It gets to be a habit.  The thing is to see reality under appearances.”

“Then you would call yourself a realist?”

Mr. Bass smiled.  “That is a slang term, Mrs. Henderson.  What you want is nature, color, passion—­to pierce the artificialities.”

“But you must describe appearance.”

“Certainly, to an extent—­form, action, talk as it is, even trivialities —­especially the trivialities, for life is made up of the trivial.”