“Let me get there, Connie, you old pig, I’m next.  Listen, girls, did you hear Ward to-day?  Wasn’t that the richest ever, after last night!  Ward makes me tired, anyway.  Did Margaret tell you about Richard and Ward, last Sunday?  Isn’t that rich!  I don’t believe it, but to hear Margaret tell it, you’d think—­Wait a minute, Louise, while I pin this up!  Whom are you going with to-night?  Are you going to dinner there?  Why don’t you let us call for you?  That’s all right, bring him along.  Will you?  All right.  That’s fine.  No, and I don’t care.  If it comes I’ll wear it, and if it doesn’t come I’ll wear that old white rag,—­it’s filthy, but I don’t care.  Telephone your aunt, Con, and then we can all go together.  Love to, darling, but I’ve got a suitor.  You have not!  I have too!  Who is it?  Who is it, I like that!  Isn’t she awful, Margaret?  Mother has an awful crush on you, Mary, she said—­Wait a minute!  I’m just going to powder my nose.  Who said Joe Chickering belonged to you?  What nerve!  He’s mine.  Isn’t Joe my property?  Don’t come in here, Alice, we’re just talking about you—­”

“Oh, if I could only slip out somehow!” thought Susan desperately.  “Oh, if only I hadn’t come!”

Their loosened wraps were displaying all sorts of pretty little costumes now.  Susan knew that the simplest of blue linen shirtwaists was under her own coat.  She had not courage to ask to borrow a comb, to borrow powder.  She knew her hair was mussed, she knew her nose was shiny—­

Her heart was beating so fast, with angry resentment of their serene rudeness, and shame that she had so readily accepted the casual invitation that gave them this chance to be rude, that she could hardly think.  But it seemed to be best, at any cost, to leave the party now, before things grew any worse.  She would make some brief excuse to Mrs. Fox,—­headache or the memory of an engagement—­

“Do you know where Mrs. Fox is?” she asked the girl nearest her.  For Mrs. Fox had sauntered out into the corridor with some idea of summoning the men.

The girl did not answer, perhaps did not hear.  Susan tried again.

“Do you know where Mrs. Fox went to?”

Now the girl looked at her for a brief instant, and rose, crossing the little room to the side of another girl.

“No, I really don’t,” she said lightly, civilly, as she went.

Susan’s face burned.  She got up, and went to the door.  But she was too late.  The young men were just gathering there in a noisy group.  It appeared that there was sudden need of haste.  The “rooters” were to gather in the court presently, for more cheering, and nobody wanted to miss the sight.

“Come, girls!  Be quick!” called Mrs. Fox.  “Come, Louise, dear!  Connie,” this to her own daughter, “you and Peter run ahead, and ask for my table.  Peter, will you take Connie?  Come, everybody!”

Somehow, they had all paired off, in a flash, without her.  Susan needed no further spur.  With more assurance than she had yet shown, she touched the last girl, as she passed, on the arm.  It chanced to be Miss Emily Saunders.  She and her escort both stopped, laughing with that nervous apprehension that seizes their class at the appearance of the unexpected.