Every now and then somebody would look
out and say it was still snowing, and with the memory of the drifts and
the cold stove in the railroad station behind them, they'd gather closer
around the fire and insist that they would go as soon as the road was
cleared.
But with the exception of Mr. von Inwald, not one of them really wanted
to go. As Doctor Barnes said over the news stand, each side was bluffing
and wouldn't call the other, and the fellow with the most nerve would
win.
"And, oh, my aunt!" he said, "what a sweet disposition the von Inwald
has! Watch him going up and banging his head against the wall!"
Everybody was charmed with the Salome dance, especially when Miss
Summers drew the cover off a meat platter she'd been dancing around,
and there was Arabella sitting on her hind legs, with a card tied to her
neck, and the card said that at eleven there would be a clambake in the
kitchen for all the guests.
(The clambake was my idea, but the dog, of course, was Miss Julia's. I
never saw a woman so full of ideas, although it seems that what should
have been on the platter was the head of somebody or other.)
Just after the dance I saw Mr. von Inwald talking to Miss Patty. He had
been ugly all evening, and now he looked like a devil. She stood facing
him with her head thrown back and her fingers twisting her ruby ring.
I guessed that she was about as much surprised as anything else, people
having a habit of being pleasant to her most of the time.
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