She decided, after all, to go down to the assemblage; and, by one of
the white marble pillars, Mrs. Randall captured her. "Why, here's
Linda-all-alone," Mrs. Randall said. "Mama out again?" Linda replied
stoutly, "She has a dreadful lot of invitations."

Mrs. Randall, who wore much brighter clothes than her mother, was
called by the latter an old buzzard. She was very old, Linda could
see, with perfectly useless staring patches of paint on her wrinkled
cheeks, and eyes that look as though they might come right out of
her head. Her frizzled hair supported a dead false twist with a
glittering diamond pin, and her soft cold hands were loaded with
jewels. She frightened Linda, really, although she could not say
why. Mrs. Randall was a great deal like the witch in a fairy-story,
but that wasn't it. Linda hadn't the belief in witches necessary for
dread. It might be her scratching voice; or the way she turned her
head, without any chin at all, like a turtle; or her dresses, which
led you to expect a person very different from an old buzzard.

"Of course she does," said Mrs. Randall, "any number of invitations,
and why shouldn't she? Your mother is very pleasant, to be sure."
She nodded wisely to the woman beside her, Miss Skillern.

Miss Skillern was short and broad and, in the evening, always wore
curled ostrich plumes on tightly filled gray puffs. She reminded
Linda of a wadded chair. Mrs. Randall, after the other's slight
stiff assent, continued:

"Your mama would never be lonely, not she. All I wonder is she
doesn't get married again--with that blondine of hers. Wouldn't you