"She's upstairs in the music room," said Cassie Weldon, seeing and
interpreting my questing glance.

"Thank you, lady, for those kind words," I called back over my
shoulder, and went upstairs.

The front room on the second floor was dubbed the "music room," Vicky
said, because there was a banjo in it. Sometimes the guests brought
more banjos and a concert of glees and college songs would ensue. But
more often, as to-night, it was a little haven of rest and peace from
the laughter and jest below stairs.

It was an exquisite white and gold room, and here, too, as I entered,
pale pink shades dimmed the lights to a soft radiance that seemed like
a breaking dawn.

Vicky sat enthroned on a white divan, her feet crossed on a
gold-embroidered white satin foot-cushion. In front of her sat three
or four of her guests all laughing and chatting.

"But he vowed he was going to get here somehow," Mrs. Reeves was
saying.

"What's his name?" asked Vicky, though in a voice of little interest.

"Somers," returned Mrs. Reeves.

"Never heard of him. Did you, Mr. Calhoun?" and Vicky Van looked up at
me as I entered.