ally is, was full of
vague charm, was kind, not stupid, and a good little thing, had two
children and was only concentrated when at the dressmaker's or trying on
hats.

Max was devoted to her and rejoiced in spoiling her. He was one of those
men who like to have a butterfly in the room with them.

Mrs. Mansfield never tried to talk to Delia in a crowd, and she and
Charmian went on into the big room. It was already full of people, many
of whom were sitting on chairs grouped about the dais on which was the
piano, while others stood about, and still others looked down upon the
throng from recessed balconies, gained from a hidden corridor with which
the main staircase of the house communicated.

Charmian saw Mrs. Shiffney not far off, talking and laughing with a
great portrait painter, who looked like a burly farmer, and with a
renowned operatic baritone, whose voice had left him in the prime of his
life and who now gave singing lessons, and tried to fight down the
genius which was in him and to which he could no longer give expression.
He had a pale, large, and cruel face, and gray eyes that had become
sinister since the disaster which had overtaken him. Near this group
were three men, a musical critic, Paul Lane, and a famous English
composer, prop and stay of provincial festivals. The composer was
handsome, with merry eyes and a hearty laugh which seemed to proclaim
"Sanity! Sanity! Sanity! Don't be afraid of the composer!" The critic
was tall, gay, and energetic, and also looked--indeed, seemed to mean
to look--a thorough good fellow who had a hatred of shams. Lane, pale
and discontented, had an air of being out of place in their company.
Pretty women were everywhere, and there were many young and very smart
men. On a sofa close to Charmian a degagee-looking Duchess was telling a
"darkie" story to a lively and debonair writer, who was finding his
story to cap it while he listened and smiled. Just beyond them were two
impertinent and picturesquely dressed girls, sisters, whom Charmian knew
intimately and met at almost every party she went to. One of them, who
wore gold laurel leaves in her dark hair, made a little face at
Charmian, which seemed to express a satirical welcome and the promise of
sarcasm when they should be near enough to talk. The other was being
prettily absurd with an excellent match. Close to the piano stood a very
beautiful woman dressed in black, without jewels or gloves, who had an
exquisite profi