E. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. Beyond that everything was nebulous. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky.
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