A little time after, they heard Mattison's irritating voice, pitched loud enough to reach them:
"I wonder what Croyden's doing here with Macloud?" he remarked. "I thought you said, Elaine, that he had skipped for foreign parts, after the Royster smash, last September."
"I did say, Mr. Mattison, I _thought_ he had gone abroad, but I most assuredly did not say, nor infer, that he had _skipped_, nor connect his going with Royster's failure!" Miss Cavendish responded. "If you must say unjust and unkind things, don't make other people responsible for them, please. Shoulder them yourself."
"Good girl!" muttered Macloud. "Hand him another!" Then he shot a look at his friend.
"I don't mind," said Croyden. "They may think what they please--and Mattison's venom is sprinkled so indiscriminately it doesn't hurt. Everyone comes in for a dose."
They dallied through dinner, and finished at the same time as the Westons. Croyden walked out with Miss Cavendish.
"I couldn't help overhearing that remark of Mattison's--the beggar intended that I should," said he--"and I want to thank you, Elaine, for your 'come back' at him."
"I'm sorry I didn't come back harder," said she.
"And if you prefer me not to go with you to the Hop to-night don't hesitate to say so--I'll understand, perfectly. The Westons may have got a wrong impression----"
"The Westons haven't ridden in the same motor, from Washington to Annapolis, with Montecute for nothing; but I'll set you straight, never fear. We are going over in the car--there is room for you both, and Mrs. Weston expects you. We will be down at nine. It's the fashion to go early, here, it seems."
Zimmerman was swinging his red-coated military band through a dreamy, sensuous waltz, as they entered the gymnasium, where the Hops, at the Naval Academy, are held. The bareness of the huge room was gone entirely--concealed by flags and bunting, which hung in brilliant festoons from the galleries and the roof. Myriads of variegated lights flashed back the glitter of epaulet and the gleam of white shoulders, with, here and there, the black of the civilian looking strangely incongruous amid the throng that danced itself into a very kaleidoscope of color.
The Secretary was a very ordinary man, who had a place in the Cabinet as a reward for political deeds done, and to be done. He represented a State machine, nothing more. Quality, temperament, fitness, poise had nothing to do with his selection. His wife was his equivalent, though, superficially, she appeared to better advantage, thanks to a Parisian modiste with exquisite taste, and her fond husband's bottomless bank account.