“I’m going over to play with Georgie and Robbie Royce!” shrilled Florence.  “They’re mean to me, but I don’t care!  I hit George in the stomach—–­”

Mrs. Haviland looked as pained as if the reported blow had fallen upon her own person, but she was strangely indulgent to her youngest born, and now did no more than signal to the nurse, old Fanny, who stood grinning behind the child’s chair, that Miss Florence might be excused.  Florence was accordingly borne off, and the girls drifted idly upstairs, Isabelle confiding to her sister as she dutifully brushed her teeth that she wished “something” would happen!  Alice muttered to Sally, another maid, over her strong hot tea, that you might as well be dead as never do a thing in God’s world you wanted to do, but the rest of the large staff enjoyed a hearty meal, and when Percival brought the car around at three o’clock, Mrs. Haviland, magnificent in a change of costume, spent the entire trip to the club in the resentful reflection that the man had obviously had coffee and cream and mutton for his lunch—­disgusting of him to come straight to his car and his mistress still redolent of his meal, but what could one do?  In Mrs. Haviland’s upper rear hall was a framed and typewritten list of rules for the maids, conspicuous upon which were those for daily baths and regular use of toothbrushes.  But Percival never had seen this list, and he was a wonderful driver and a special favorite with her husband.  She decided that there was nothing to be done, unless of course the thing recurred, although the moment’s talk with Percival haunted and distressed her all day.

She duly returned to the house for her daughters a little after four o’clock, and in amicable conversation they went together to the tea, a crowded, informal affair, in another large house full of rugs and flowers, rooms dark and rich with expensive tapestries and mahogany, rooms bright and gay with white enamel and chintz and wicker furniture.

Everybody was here.  Jeanette and Phyllis, as well as Elinor Vanderwall, Peter Pomeroy and George, the Buckneys and Parker Hoyt, the Emorys, the Chases, Mrs. Sartoris and old Mrs. Torrence and Jack, all jumbled a greeting to the Havilands.  Of Carol they presently caught a glimpse standing on a sheltered little porch with Joe Pickering’s sleek head beside her.  They were apparently not talking, just staring quietly down at the green terraces of the garden.  Rachael was pouring tea, her face radiant under a narrowbrimmed, close hat loaded with cherries, her gown of narrow green and white stripes the target for every pair of female eyes in the room.

Charlotte Haviland, in her mother’s wake, chanced to encounter Kenneth Moran, a red-faced, well-dressed and blushing youth of her own age.  Her complacent mother was witness to the blameless conversation between them.

“How do you do, Kenneth?  I didn’t know you were here!”

“Oh, how do you do, Charlotte?  How do you do, Isabelle?  I didn’t know you were here!”