Jim Dyckman and Charity Coe suddenly
found themselves together. They hated it, but they could not easily
escape. Jim felt that all eyes were bulging out at them. He had
murder in his heart.
There was the usual delay, the frank impatience and leg-fag of people
unused to standing about except at receptions and dressmakers'.
Finally the snobbish string-orchestra from Boston, which played only
the most exclusive music, began to tune up, and at length, after much
mysterious wigwagging of signals to play, it played a hunting-piece.
Suddenly from the foliage came what was supposed to be a startled
nymph. The spectators were startled, too, for a moment, for her
costume was amazing. Even on Bailey's Beach it would have attracted
attention.
Kedzie was the nymph. She was making her debut into great society.
What would her mother have said if she could have seen her there?
Her father would have said nothing. He would have fainted
unobtrusively, for the first time in his life.
Kedzie was scared. She had stage-fright of all these great people
so overdressed when she was not even underclothed.
"Poor little thing!" said Charity, and began to applaud to cheer her
up. She nudged Jim. "Come on, help her out. Isn't she beautiful?"
"Is she?" said Jim, applauding.
It did not seem right to praise one woman's beauty to another. It
was like praising one author's work to another, or praising another
preacher's sermon to a preacher's face.
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