At the hotel, after the wedding, she was the centre of an admiring group, and conscious of her husband’s approving eyes, full of her old brilliant charm.  All the old friends rallied about her—­they had not seen much of her since her marriage—­and found her more magnetic than ever.  The circumstances of her marriage were blotted out by more recent events now:  there was the Chase divorce to discuss; the Villalonga motor-car accident; Elinor Vanderwall had astonished everybody a few weeks before by her sudden marriage to millions in the person of old Peter Pomeroy; now people were beginning to say that Jeanette Vanderwall might soon be expected to follow suit with Peter’s nephew George.  The big, beautifully decorated reception-room hummed with gay gossip, with the tinkling laughter of women and the deeper tones of men.

Caterers’ men began to work their way through the crush, bearing indiscriminately trays of bouillon, sandwiches, salads, and ices.  The bride, with her surrounding bridesmaids, was still standing at the far end of the room mechanically shaking hands, and smilingly saying something dazed and inappropriate to her friends as they filed by; but now various groups, scattered about the room, began to interest themselves in the food.  Elderly persons, after looking vaguely about for seats, disposed of their coffee and salad while standing, and soon there was a general breaking-up; the Buckney-Hoyt wedding was almost a thing of the past.

Rachael, thinking of the impending dinner-hour of little Gerald Fairfax Gregory, began to watch the swirling groups for Warren.  They could slip away now, surely; several persons had already gone.  Her heart was in her nursery, where Jim was toddling back and forth tirelessly in the firelight, and where, between the white bars of the new crib, was the tiny roll of snowy blankets that enclosed the new baby.

“That’s a pretty girl,” she found herself saying involuntarily as her absent eyes were suddenly arrested by the face and figure of one of the guests.  “I wonder who that is?”

The brown eyes she was watching met hers at the same second, and smiling a little question, their owner came toward her.

“Hello, Rachael,” the girl said.  “How are you after all these years?”

“Magsie Clay!” Rachael exclaimed, the look of uncertainty on her face changing to one of pleasure and welcome.  “Well, you dear child, you!  How are you?  I knew you were here, and yet I couldn’t place you.  You’ve changed—­you’re thinner.”

“Oh, much thinner, but then I was an absolute butterball!” Miss Clay said.  “Tell me about yourself.  I hear that you’re having a baby every ten minutes!”

“Not quite!” Rachael said, laughing, but a little discomposed by the girl’s coolness.  “But I have two mighty nice boys, as I’ll prove to you if you’ll come see me!”

“Don’t expect me to rave over babies, because I don’t know anything about them,” said Magsie Clay, with a slow, drawling manner that was, Rachael decided, effective.  “Do they like toys?”