But a part of her satisfaction was pure pose, for the benefit of
that kindly pair who loved her so. Alone in her room, dressed to go
down-stairs, Delight drew a long breath and picked up her flowers which
Clayton Spencer had sent. It had been his kindly custom for years to
send to each little debutante, as she made her bow, a great armful of
white lilacs and trailing tiny white rosebuds.

"Fifty dollars, probably," Delight reflected. "And the Belgians needing
flannels. It's dreadful."

Her resentment against Graham was dying. After all, he was only a
child in Toots Hayden's hands. And she made one of those curious
"He-loves-me-he-loves-me-not" arrangements in her own mind. If Graham
came that afternoon, she would take it as a sign that there was still
some good in him, and she would try to save him from himself. She had
been rather nasty to him. If he did not come-A great many came, mostly women, with a sprinkling of men. The rector,
who loved people, was in his element. He was proud of Delight, proud
of his home; he had never ceased being proud of his wife. He knew who
exactly had sent each basket of flowers, each hanging bunch. "Your
exquisite orchids," he would say; or, "that perfectly charming basket.
It is there, just beside Mrs. Haverford."

But when Natalie Spencer came in alone, splendid in Russian sables, he
happened to be looking at Delight, and he saw the light die out of her
eyes.