There was a ball in the old Pentland house because for the first time in nearly forty years there was a young girl in the family to be introduced to the polite world of Boston and to the elect who had been asked to come on from New York and Philadelphia. So the old house was all bedizened with lanterns and bunches of late spring flowers, and in the bare, white-painted, dignified hallway a negro band, hidden discreetly by flowers, sat making noisy, obscene music. Sybil Pentland was eighteen and lately returned from School in Paris, whither she had been sent against the advice of the conservative members of her own family, which, it might have been said, included in its connections most of Bo…
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