Dinner began with the ceremony due Mrs. Arty. There was no lack
of the sacred old jokes. Tom Poppins did not fail to bellow
"Bring on the dish-water," nor Miss Mary Proudfoot to cheep
demurely "Don't y' knaow" in a tone which would have been
recognized as fascinatingly English anywhere on the American
stage. Then the talk stopped dead as Istra Nash stood agaze in
the doorway--pale and intolerant, her red hair twisted high on
her head, tall and slim and uncorseted in a gray tight-fitting
gown. Every head turned as on a pivot, first to Istra, then to
Mr. Wrenn. He blushed and bowed as if he had been called on for
a speech, stumblingly arose, and said: "Uh--uh--uh--you met
Mrs. Ferrard, didn't you, Istra? She'll introduce you to the rest."
He sat down, wondering why the deuce he'd stood up, and
unhappily realized that Nelly was examining Istra and himself
with cool hostility. In a flurry he glowered at Istra as she
nonchalantly sat down opposite him, beside Mrs. Arty, and
incuriously unfolded her napkin.
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