Miss Lana had suddenly observed warning symptoms in the case of Mrs.
Stanton.
Mrs. Stanton, according to a solicitous friend's best judgment, was no
longer assisting in the receiving-line; Mrs. Stanton needed assistance!
Therefore, sooner than the social code might have permitted in an affair
of more rigorously formal character, Lana left the receiving job to her
father and the Governor and the aides, and rescued Mrs. Stanton and
accompanied the young matron to the sanctuary of a boudoir above-stairs.
Mrs. Stanton extended to the tender touch of her maid a wilted hand,
lifted by a stiffened arm, the raising of which pumped a groan from the
lady. The white glove which incased the hand and arm was smutched
liberally in telltale fashion.
"Pull it off, Hibbert! But careful! Don't pull off my fingers unless they
are very loose and beyond hope. But hurry! Let me know the worst as soon
as possible."
"I realize that the reception--" began Lana.
"Reception!" Mrs. Stanton snapped her head around to survey her youthful
hostess. The flame on the matron's cheeks matched the fire in her tones.
"Reception, say you? Lana Corson, don't you know the difference between a
reception and a political rally?"
"I'm sorry, Doris! But father simply must do this duty thing when the
legislature meets.
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