All the carriages in
the neighborhood had been pressed into service, and a half dozen
motors had been sent out from town to convey the guests from the
station to the house.
Within the mansion everything was magnificently new. Period rooms,
carried out with conscientious accuracy, opened into each other
through arcaded doorways. Massive gilt mirrors accentuated the wide
spaces of the hall, and repeated the lights of innumerable
chandeliers. If a stray memory or an old association had by any chance
crept into the Christmas ball, it would have found no familiar object
on which to dwell. The atmosphere was as formal and impersonal as that
of a museum.
In the middle of the drawing-room, like a general issuing last orders
before a battle, stood Mrs. Sequin, her ample figure encased in an
armor of glistening black spangles, and her elaborately puffed
coiffure surmounted by an incipient helmet of blazing gems.
"Pull those portieres back a trifle," she commanded, "and lower that
window from the top. Has Jimpson gone to the station for the
Queeringtons?"
"Yes, madam, half an hour ago," answered the maid.
"The moment he returns tell him that he is to take the small wagon and
go back to the station at ten o'clock.
Pages:
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235