The last words were lost in the push of new arrivals, and quickly
Laine led the way to the room where David was waiting. Through the
open door the sound of music reached them faintly over the shrill
rise and fall of many voices; and as Claudia sat down near the table
on which various plates had been placed she put her hands to the
sides of her face and, laughing, drew them away.

"Did you ever put a cockle-shell to your ear and notice its roar?"
she asked. "That's how a Tea sounds when there're only women at it.
When there're men it's more so. What is this?" She held her fork
suspended for a moment. "It's awfully good, but very elusive. What
do you suppose it is?"

"A bunch of guesses wouldn't hit it. Clicot is providing the
provender, I believe; I see his men here, and the ambition of
Clicot's life is to create a new dish. I'm glad you like it. It's
as near nothing as anything I ever ate. Are you comfortable? Is
that chair all right?"

Claudia nodded. "Why don't you sit down? I'm sorry we can't see the
people, but it's nice to be out of the crowd." She looked around the
room. "This is a very handsome house. I never saw more gorgeous
flowers, and tomorrow," she gave a queer little sigh, "tomorrow it
will all be over--and the flowers faded."

"Faded things are the penalties of wealth. It's the one compensation
for follies of this sort that they are soon over."

"I don't think they are always follies. When I was young--"