New York life. She wore a brilliant purple confection of velvet, adorned with extraordinary little flowers of an indescribable and unknown species and shape. She seized the arm of her cousin, with whom she was staying, and though in the noise there was no need of caution, she whispered:
“Who is that girl with the green dress and red hair—I mean what name does she go by here?”
“That’s Miss Daquin—she’s Mrs. Rogers’ niece and she’s very popular—some of the women don’t like her but that’s because she’s better-looking than most of them. Men like her because she pays no attention to them—”
Mrs. Plummer snorted.
“Miss Daquin! So that’s how she’s getting by, is it?”
She was in her element. New York did not terrify her any more by its hugeness and strangeness. The eyes of her friend picked out Mimi’s form as it appeared and disappeared through the dancing forms. Mrs. Plummer was giving a complete, more than complete, account of Mimi and her life.
“These society coloured folks make me tired,” Mrs. Plummer was saying. “They look down on us ordinary folks but they’re carrying on their deviltry just as much as any of us. And they do some of the craziest things! That girl was carrying on round Atlanta with this Hunter boy and when they found out she was going to have a baby she just went crazy—said she didn’t want to marry the boy! Can you imagine anybody doing such a fool thing?” she demanded rhetorically.
“I always did think there was something funny about her,” her vis-à-vis answered satisfactorily. “You can’t fool me—I can spot ’em a mile off. What became of the baby?”