Mrs. Ballinger was now in her fifties but still one of the most
beautiful women in San Francisco; and she still wore shining gray
gowns that matched the bright silver of her hair to a shade. Her
descendants had inherited little of her beauty (Alexina Groome as yet
roaming space, and, no doubt, having her subtle way with ghosts old
and new).
Mrs. McLane had discharged commissions for every woman present
except Maria, and their gowns had been unpacked on the moment, that
they might be displayed at this notable function. They wore the new
long basque and overskirt made of cloth or cashmere, combined with
satin, velvet or brocade, and with the exception of Mrs. Abbott they
had removed their hats. Chignons had disappeared. Hair was
elaborately dressed at the back or arranged in high puffs with two
long curls suspended. Marguerite Abbott and Annette wore the new
plaids. Mrs. Abbott had graduated from black satin and bugles to
cloth, but her bonnet was of jet.
"Now!" exclaimed Mrs. McLane, who had been plied with eager questions
from oysters to dessert. "I've told you all the news about the
fashions, the salon, the plays, the opera, all the scandals of Paris I
can remember but you'll never guess my _piece de resistance_."
"What--what--" Tea was forgotten.
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