Her clasp was firm, cool, and nervously cordial--the old confident affection of childhood once more.
"I am _so_ glad you came, Duane.

I've really missed you." And sweeping the little circle with an eager glance; "You know everybody, I think.
The Dysarts have not yet appeared, and Scott is down at the Gate Lodge.
Come and sit by me, Duane." Two or three girls extended their hands to him--Sylvia Quest, shy and quiet; Muriel Wye, white-skinned, black-haired, red-lipped, red-cheeked, with eyes like melted sapphires and the expression of a reckless saint; and his blond sister, Naida, who had arrived that afternoon from the Tappans' at Iron Hill, across the mountain.
Delancy Grandcourt, uncouth and highly coloured, stood up to shake hands; Bunbury Gray, a wiry, bronzed little polo-playing squadron man, hailed Duane with enthusiasm.
"Awfully glad to see you, Bunny," said Duane, who liked him immensely--"oh, how are you ?" offering his hand to Reginald Wye, a hard-riding, hard-drinking, straight-shooting young man, who knew nothing on earth except what concerned sport and the drama.

He and his sister of the sapphire eyes and brilliant cheeks were popularly known as the Pink 'uns.
Jack Dysart arrived presently, graceful, supple, always smilingly, elaborate of manner, apparently unconscious that he was not cordially admired by the men who returned his greeting.

Later, Rosalie, came, enchantingly demure in her Greuze-like beauty.

Chardin might have made her; possibly Fragonard.