Luminosity of the Splendid

       It is widely-known by most mademoiselles who reside in New York the primary principle of playing hostess; to keep entertained the guests without reverence to any personal little discomforts.

If Wendy Sudwell held any insecurity over her own attendance at the Sudwell ball, none was evident. She glided across the parquet floor and past the mural window with slight deification in her ladylike gait and in a partially intimidating manner. Her sharp features beheld downwards as she musingly admired the dust-free frame of ecru cherrywood and the comb-crested lace curtains imported from Versailles. It was an essentiality of society for the Sudwells to present only the inimitable and the most immaculate to the public.
“Miss Sudwell,” Wendy shifted her gaze to her impending greeter.
“Miss Sudwell, it is always such a pleasure to see you. You look overwhelmingly lovely this evening, as always,” Cason Genoble provided, along with the gentle brush of his lips against her satin gloved fingers. Wendy twisted the length of her neck so that the last receding aurora of the evening accentuated her angled profile; making the porcelain of her clavicles glow and the beads of pearl and garnet across her chest glimmer. A familiar smile was delivered, one of those that she reserved especially for men from class and money as Cason, and a cordial thanks enclosed in a flurry of giggles just bounteous enough to be heard by any known gossips in proximity. There was almost always the guarantee of rumorous babble between seemingly well-knit circles; the newest and most prized debutante, the grandest engagement, the latest scandal, the recent abominations of women who could not help but unroll their stockings in the presence of men that were not their husband. It was a vicious antagonism of panache and wealth, in which Wendy always turnd out in triumph.

Across the room, she could not help but revel in the envious gazes of the other women in Cason’s inquiry of dance. The young Genoble gentleman had, like his father, firm headmaster cheekbones that demanded attention and the gentle lichen eyes of his mother. His dark hair was never seen out of place and his evening tuxedo was visibly new and tailored, deeming him a well-earned spot as one of New York’s most well-kept bachelors. The young Miss Sudwell wore a fishtail gown of ivory chiffon made volumous by lacy layers of underskirt. Her alabaster princess neckline was bordered by tiny roses of pewter faille and the drastic cliffs and canyons in her skirt were entrammeled neatly with a finishing silk ribbon at her narrow waist and cinched at her bust. As the lovely couple took to the dancefloor, she brooded over how agreeable and beautous Cason made her appear and perhaps the flattering words in next morning’s society columns. All of our brightest New Yorkers were gathered last night at the fete hosted at the Sudwell mansion; though confessions must be made about young Cason Genoble and the hostess herself, Miss Wendy Sudwell, who stole the night in a promenade of elegance and noblesse. In fact, she was almost sure of this, for who would have to absurdity to omit her name in the papers anymore?

Wendy Sudwell flounced in her partner’s arms across the ballroom floor, spinning past dupletailed waiters with trays of champagne and beneath aging divorcees in idle chatter along the second floor mezzanine. Nothing could touch her exaltation, she knew, for society was her game, her awry asylum, and she frolicked with it like a puppeteer.