Now, don't try to remember names. They'll remember yours--better than I
did!"
Another small eddying circle formed about the luminaries from a lower
sphere. This proved to be much like similar performances in any stratum of
society. All murmured platitudes, or nothing. Nobody tried to be original
or witty. Alexina and Aileen gradually disengaged themselves and were
making their way toward the pictures that turned the four walls into a
harmonious mass of color, when an old man came tottering up. He had bright,
eyes and a pleasant face.
"Which is Mrs. Dwight?" he asked eagerly. Alexina bent her lofty head and
smiled down upon him.
"Of course. Little Alexina. I remember you when you were a dear little girl
and I used to see you playing about the house when I went up to have a
good powwow with that clever grandfather of yours, Alex Groome--one of the
ablest politicians this town ever had; and straight, damn straight."
"Alexander Groome was my father."
"Oh, no, he wasn't. He was your grandfather. You are the daughter...let me
see...there were two or three young ladies....I remember when they came out
in the eighties...and a boy or two...."
"I am sorry to be rude, but Alexander Groome was my father. I came along
rather late."
"Impossible!...Well, I suppose you know best..." and he drifted off.
"This seems to be a home for incurables," said Aileen. "I am sure I don't
know how I shall get through the evening.
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