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A little later she and Peyton would go on to a dance; for her
mother's consternation when the frock had been unpacked from its Paris
wrappings had been temporarily mitigated by the assertion that unless
one danced in gowns like that, one simply couldn't be expected to dance
at all. "Of course, if you wish me to be a wall-flower like Margaret
Blair," Mary Byrd had protested with wounded dignity; and since Mrs.
Culpeper wished nothing on earth so little as that, her only response
had been, "Well, I hope to heaven that you won't let your father see
it!"
Now, as her husband was heard descending the stairs, she said hurriedly:
"Mary Byrd, if you won't put a scarf over your knees, I wish you would
wear one around your neck."
"Oh, Father won't mind," retorted Mary Byrd flippantly. "He is a real
sport, and he knows that you have to play the game well if you play it
at all." Then turning with her liveliest air, she remarked as Mr.
Culpeper entered: "Father, darling, I've just said that you were a
sport.


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