Some support was necessary,
for she was very stout, and so compressed that the upper part of her
body hung considerably in advance of her feet, which could only trip in
tiny steps, owing to the tightness of the skirt round her ankles. The
dress itself consisted of a small piece of shiny yellow satin, adorned
here and there indiscriminately with round shields of blue and green
beads made to imitate hues of a peacock's breast. On the summit of a
frothy castle of hair a purple plume stood erect, while her short neck
was encircled by a black velvet ribbon knobbed with gems, and golden
bracelets were tightly wedged into the flesh of her fat gloved arms. She
had the face of an impertinent but jolly little pig, mottled red under a
dusting of powder.
St. John could not join in Helen's laughter.
"It makes me sick," he declared. "The whole thing makes me sick. . . .
Consider the minds of those people--their feelings. Don't you agree?"
"I always make a vow never to go to another party of any description,"
Helen replied, "and I always break it."
She leant back in her chair and looked laughingly at the young man.
She could see that he was genuinely cross, if at the same time slightly
excited.
"However," he said, resuming his jaunty tone, "I suppose one must just
make up one's mind to it."
"To what?"
"There never will be more than five people in the world worth talking
to.
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