Summer 1940 • Vol. II No. 3 Fiction |

The Ball

She ran up the long steps eagerly. There was a ball tonight, the chandelier in the lobby blared light like a trumpet through the great open door and sent long shadows twisting among the thousand curls and carvings of the portico. The innumerable rocking chairs on the porch, set for a quiet summer evening, stood in empty intimate disorder as if the impatient dancers had risen at a signal, nervously, like pigeons, and scattered to the ball. Here and there under the porch roof, windows, high and secret, gave forth an orange glow and caressing voices fell from them soft as feathers across the summer air. She was excited by the light and the thought of dancing and the ancient wooden magnificence of the hotel. It was back in its prime tonight, gay and enormous and unquestionable, the ladies would tap their cheeks with fans and the horsemen would come pink-coated from the meet, with laughter. But she was late. She seemed to remember the ballroom and should find it easily, though she was pe

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