The dinner seemed, somehow, to center about Mary Vertrees and the
jocund host as a play centers about its hero and heroine; they were
the rubicund king and the starry princess of this spectacle--they paid
court to each other, and everybody paid court to them. Down near the
sugar Pump Works, where Bibbs sat, there was audible speculation and
admiration. "Wonder who that lady is--makin' such a hit with the old
man." "Must be some heiress." "Heiress? Golly, I guess I could
stand it to marry rich, then!"
Edith and Sibyl were radiant: at first they had watched Miss Vertrees
with an almost haggard anxiety, wondering what disasterous effect
Sheridan's pastoral gaieties--and other things--would have upon her,
but she seemed delighted with everything, and with him most of all.
She treated him as if he were some delicious, foolish old joke that
she understood perfectly, laughing at him almost violently when he
bragged--probably his first experience of that kind in his life. It
enchanted him.
As he proclaimed to the table, she had "a way with her." She had,
indeed, as Roscoe Sheridan, upon her right, discovered just after
the feast began. Since his marriage three years before, no lady had
bestowed upon him so protracted a full view of brilliant eyes; and,
with the look, his lovely neighbor said--and it was her first speech
to him--
"I hope you're very susceptible, Mr.
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