mentioned.

Naïda Mallett, whom she had not seen in many years, she had known
immediately, and now remembered. And Naïda had taken her white-gloved
hand shyly, whispering constrained formalities, then had disappeared
into the unreality of it all.

Duane, her old playmate, may have been there, but she could not remember
having seen him. There were so many, many youths of the New York sort,
all dressed alike, all resembling one another--many, many people flowing
past her where she stood submerged in the silken ebb eddying around her.

* * * * *

These were the few hazy impressions remaining--she was recalling them
now while dressing for her first dinner dance. Later, when her maid
released her with a grunt of Gallic disapproval, she, distraite, glanced
at her gown in the mirror, still striving to recall something definite
of the day before.

"_Was_ Duane there?" she asked Kathleen, who had just entered.

"No, dear.... Why did you happen to think of Duane Mallett?"

"Naïda came.... Duane was such a splendid little boy.... I had hoped----"

Mrs. Severn said coolly:

"Duane isn't a very splendid man. I might as well tell you now as
later."