They
seemed genuinely glad to see her, but they did not spare her. She
had grown a little stouter, had she not? Ah, well happy people
risked that. And they did not need to be told how happy she was. In
quite an old-fashioned way, too. Myra domesticated--how quaint that
was! Did she sing any more? No? What a pity!
Her rooms had lain quiet too long. So much noise deafened her. She
was suddenly aware that she _had_ grown stouter. Her new gown, made
for the occasion, should have been more cleverly designed. Martigues
as much as told her so. She had, also, lost the power of attraction.
She could not hold people's attention as she used to. She was
sensitively aware of how readily one and the other drifted away
after a few words. Had she not been hostess, she would often have
found herself alone.
David Cannon and Miss Maury came late. Frances was fond of dramatic
entrances; she had the stage sense. Myra hurried forward, aware, as
she did so, that her greeting held a maternal note; that Cannon was
looking through and through her with those small, relentless eyes of
his. Then Oliver came up, and from the corner of her eyes she saw
Frances attach herself to him. She had known that would happen.
Frances Maury was indeed a lovely creature, vivid, electric, swift,
and free of movement, mellow of voice.
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