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 her new white gloves, seeing herself and Evelyn girls together.

Mrs. Driggs took them in her limousine, driven by Noble in a chauffeur's cap, but no puttees. Artificial orchids quivered in a cut-glass vase; there was a clock that didn't go, an empty vinaigrette, a cigarette lighter that wouldn't light. "By, this is luxury!" Carrie sighed, trying not to blow her nose until she got to Charlotte's.

Already there were heaps of wraps on the twin beds. A three-piece orchestra was playing under the stairs. Charlotte's friends in beaded evening gowns were passing things, besides two colored waiters and Charlotte's own Winnie and Theresa. Pink tulips; pink rosebuds, some of them wilting in the heat, dropping their heads like wounded swans; long trails of asparagus fern; the sharp pink noses of the candles beginning to run; cakes in frilled paper bonnets; sandwiches rolled and tied with bows of white satin baby ribbon, like dolls' diplomas. Salad, frappé, fruit punch, everything but tea. A faint smell of gasoline from two-thirds of the town's white gloves, of coffee, dying roses, in air quivering with noise and heat. People who generally came only to weddings and funerals had come to meet Joe Green's bride. Yellowed ermine neckpieces; yellowed Roman pearls; hats high on gray pompadours; best dresses that looked as if they had been worn in the rain and then slept in. It was hot; pulses beat fast and noses began to glisten. There was an emphasized beat