Suspense, Volume II by Henry Seton Merriman

The soirée of the Ancient Artists' Guild was in the full flow of its success. There had been some excellent music, and the programme promised more. The brilliancy of the attendance was equal to the highest hopes of the most ambitious committee. Long hair and strange dresses vouched for the presence of self-conscious intellect; small receding foreheads, hopeless mouths, and fair but painted faces, announced the presence of that shade of aristocracy which prefers to patronize.

William Hicks was not on the committee of the Ancient Artists, but he moved about from group to group, dispensed ices, and exchanged artistic jargon with a greater grace than was at the command of that entire august body. By some subtle means, peculiarly his own, he managed to convey to many the erroneous idea that he was in some indefinite way connected with the obvious success of this soirée; and several stout ladies went so far as to thank him, later on, for a pleasant evening, which gratitude he graciously and deprecatingly disowned in such a way as to make it appear his due. The pleasant evening had been in most cases spent between a nervous concern as to the effect produced by personal and filial adornment, and an ill-disguised contempt for common women who flaunt titles and diamonds (both uncoveted) in the faces of their superiors, possessing neither. But we men cannot be expected to understand those things.