developed an enthusiasm for it, to his own surprise. And the girl
listened intently, leaning forward so that her arm brushed his
shoulder. Her eyes, slightly narrowed, watched him closely. She
knew every move of the game she was determining to play.

Marion Hayden, at twenty-five, knew already what her little world
had not yet realized, that such beauty as she had had was the
beauty of youth only, and that that was going. Late hours, golf,
perhaps a little more champagne than was necessary at dinners, and
the mornings found her almost plain. And, too, she had the far
vision of the calculating mind. She knew that if the country
entered the war, every eligible man she knew would immediately
volunteer.

At twenty-five she already noticed a change in the personnel of her
followers. The unmarried men who had danced with her during her
first two winters were now sending flowers to the debutantes, and
cutting in on the younger men at balls. Her house was still a
rendezvous, but it was for couples like the ones who had preempted
the drawing-room, the library and the music room that afternoon.
They met there, smoked her cigarets, made love in a corner,
occasionally became engaged. But she was of the game, no longer
in it.

Men still came to see her, a growing percentage of them married.
They brought or sent her tribute, flowers, candy, and cigarets. She
was enormously popular at dances. But more and more her dinner
invitations were from the older crowd. Like Natalie Spencer's
stupid party the night before.