Sequin was not one
to waste her energies on vain regret. The ball was going to be a
success; already the rooms were filling rapidly with the people Mrs.
Sequin most desired to see. Old Mrs. Marchmont had risen from a sick
bed to drive out from town and bare her ancient bones in honor of the
occasion. Mrs. Bartrum had taken possession of the most becoming
corner in the library and was holding gay court there; the young
people were thronging from one room to another; everybody was laughing
and chatting and exclaiming over the charms of the new house. In fact
the complacency of the hostess over her achievement was only surpassed
by the curiosity of the guests who were confirming with their own eyes
the wild rumors which had been current of the Sequins' extravagance.
Mr. Horton, the local architect who had not been considered of
sufficient renown to make the plans for the house, wandered from room
to room on a quiet tour of inspection. Mrs. Sequin's fears of his
judgment were not without cause, for Mr. Horton was one of those
critics whose advice one always ignores but whose approval one
ardently desires. He was a trim, immaculate person with short, pointed
beard, and narrow, critical eyes that always seemed to be taking
measurements.
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