The Withdrawing Room by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

to get her anywhere, blossomed out in a confection of pink ruffles that blended charmingly with Mr. Porter-Smith’s wine-colored dress suit, enhanced tonight by an extra-narrow bow tie and an extra wide cummerbund in a swashbuckling blue-and-burgundy plaid.
    Mr. Hartler bustled in all smiles and enthusiasm, wearing the ancient and baggy black tie that was evening uniform among men of his generation and background. He’d hardly been introduced to the company when he made a beeline for Mrs. Sorpende’s aigrette and proceeded to enthrall the lady under it with a description of the blue velvet gown trimmed with peacock feathers that Queen Kapiolani had commissioned from B. Altman’s for her state visit to Queen Victoria. Professor Ormsby stood silently by wearing a black turtleneck instead of a brown one as his concession to the festivities, either lost in altitudinous abstrusions or wondering how Mrs. Sorpende would look in blue velvet and peacock feathers.
    Charles was almost ready to announce dinner and Mr. Bittersohn had not yet appeared in the library. Sarah was wondering nervously whether he was going to show up when she heard Jennifer LaValliere breathe, “Oh, wow!”
    As far as Sarah could recall, Max Bittersohn was dressed exactly as he had been the night Harry Lackridge introduced them, in a dark gray worsted suit, a plain white shirt, and a heavy silk four-in-hand tie of sober pattern. He wore no ornament of any kind, not even cuff links or a tie clasp, and he made everybody else in the room look like the leftovers from a rather tacky masquerade party.
    It had been the same that time at the Lackridges: Harry in his silly old maroon velvet smoking jacket so disturbingly like Mr. Porter-Smith’s getup, Bob Dee wearing a turtleneck jersey and sports jacket, Alexander with his aged dress suit that, like Mr. Hartler, he was determined to get the good out of. For a moment she could see nothing but a blur of tears.
    However, landladies do not break down in front of their paying guests. In a moment, Sarah was collectedly performing introductions and Miss LaValliere was gurgling fab, or neat, or whatever the catchword of the moment happened to be. Mrs. Sorpende, though gracious as ever, was less effusive. In fact Sarah had an odd feeling the woman might even feel a trifle wary, though she couldn’t for the life of her understand why.
    To be sure, Mrs. Sorpende was much the elder of the two. Bittersohn couldn’t be more than ten years older than Sarah herself, while Mrs. Sorpende must be a well-preserved fifty-five or more and Sarah, though she had no cash to spare, would have been willing to place a small wager on the “more.” Did Mrs. Sorpende think Bittersohn too attractive a man for a young widow to take into her home? Was she afraid he might seduce Miss LaValliere, or vice versa?
    Or did she fear he might be impervious to her own more mature charms? Why should she care, with Professor Ormsby panting into her aigrette and Mr. Hartler hurling himself into her silken net before she’d even had time to get it spread, as Cousin Dolph, Uncle Jem, and who knew how many other well-heeled bachelors of suitable age had already shown a disposition to do?
    Perhaps Sarah was imagining things. At any rate, Mr. Bittersohn didn’t appear to notice any coolness in the atmosphere. They’d agreed in advance that she was to present him simply as a consultant on art objects and paintings, and let the others interpret the description any way they chose. Mr. Porter-Smith evidently took it to mean appraiser and began airing his own knowledge of finance in the art world, which he made to sound far too intricate for any but the keenest minds such as Eugene Porter-Smith’s.
    Mr. Bittersohn listened with every appearance of respect. Mr. Hartler managed to tear himself away from Mrs. Sorpende long enough to interject a word about the Iolani Palace and was overjoyed to learn that Mr. Bittersohn had been there. The lady ought not to have