"Set down the kid," roared Blueskin, savagely. Earles attended her obsequiously to the door. Old Kesterton, choleric-looking individual nearly opposite, will curse the cooking till he’s black in the face, but he never misses a dinner. The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. And at length her penultimate day in Morningside Park dawned for her.
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