I am immensely flattered, but you are making me feel the rude hostess."
And this time she turned with an air of finality to the apologetic,
almost purple, man at her side and asked him to continue to enlighten
her on municipal politics.

One or two women shrugged their shoulders. A few looked crestfallen,
others, like Marian Lawrence, malignant. She had marched off with the
flag, no use blinking the fact, and it had been small satisfaction to
make her admit what she had already told the world. The "rubbing in"
had evidently missed its mark. And the men, instead of looking cheap,
were either infuriated or disgusted. Only Clavering, who managed to
look bored and remote, was attending strictly to his salad.

One thing more they could do, however, and that was to make the dinner
a failure. They barely replied to the efforts of the men to "make
things go" and gloom settled over the table. Madame Zattiany continued
to talk with placidity or animation to the men beside her, and
Clavering started a running fire with Anne Goodrich, who, almost as
angry as himself, loyally helped him, on censorship, the latest books
and plays, even the situation in Washington; and they continued their
painful efforts until the signal was given to leave the table.

XXXVIII

The men did not linger in the dining-room. The women, protesting that
they were later than usual for the opera, left immediately after they
returned to the drawing-room. There was a cool insolence in their
"good-byes" and there was no doubt that they meant them to be final.
Only Anne Goodrich shook the imperturbable hostess's hand warmly and
asked if she might come some day to tea.

The husbands perforce went with their wives, after farewells that
sounded more like au revoirs, and so did the younger men, except
Clavering and Harry Vane. Clavering planted himself on the hearthrug,
and Vane, scowling at him, lingered uncertainly.

He plunged his hands into his pockets, and, very red, stood in front of
Madame Zattiany, who was leaning back in her chair and fanning herself
leisurely. "I feel like apologizing for those beastly women," he
blurted out.

"Apologize?" Madame Zattiany raised her eyebrows.

"Yes. Can't you see they came here tonight with the deliberate
intention of making New York too hot to hold you? So that you'd clear
out? They'd made up their minds that you'd changed yours about
returning to Europe. They hate you. They're used to being