* * * *
ISABELLE
She paused at the top of the staircase. The sensations attributed to
divers on spring-boards, leading ladies on opening nights, and lumpy,
husky young men on the day of the Big Game, crowded through her. She
should have descended to a burst of drums or a discordant blend of themes
from "Thais" and "Carmen." She had never been so curious about her
appearance, she had never been so satisfied with it. She had been
sixteen years old for six months.
"Isabelle!" called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the dressing-room.
"I'm ready." She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her throat.
"I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers. It'll be
just a minute."
Isabelle started toward the dressing-room for a last peek in the mirror,
but something decided her to stand there and gaze down the broad stairs
of the Minnehaha Club. They curved tantalizingly, and she could catch
just a glimpse of two pairs of masculine feet in the hall below.
Pump-shod in uniform black, they gave no hint of identity, but she
wondered eagerly if one pair were attached to Amory Blaine.
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