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 through the uproar of vague emphatic cordiality: Howda do why Mrs. Robinson how well you're looking aren't the flowers lovely have you met the bride isn't she attractive have you had some frappé how nice to see you my dear it's been ages aren't the flowers lovely isn't she attractive so nice to have seen you I think a little coffee I must speak to Kate Green well where've you been hiding just a little frappé isn't the bride attractive can her pearls be real my dear isn't it hot just a little frappé

And after that the tidal wave of parties broke over Evelyn. Lunches where young mothers talked about Dicky being an absolute angel, but Patricia being a perfect little imp of darkness, my dear; about whether Nantucket was a good place for the children; about smocking on little dresses. "Don't you love it? Oh, Ellen, what a precious little dress—oh, my dear, I simply love it!" Pretty sitting rooms with wedding-present lamps and etchings; pretty young matrons taking a few dainty stitches in baby clothes between coffee and bridge. "Maids, my dear—Barbara Tuttle has had five different cooks in one month" Maids! And they were off, until it was time for a discreet changing of the subject as the waitress came in for the empty coffee cups.

Little Priscillas and Anthonys came in to say how do you do to mother's friends, with an eye on the chocolates; good fat babies were passed around, wrapped in shell-pink knitted blankets, rolling their