Joan leaned over the banister.
"But now that we have met, you aren't really frightened, are you?" she asked in so wistful a voice, and with a look so deeply pleading in her big blue eyes that no young man could have withstood her.
Harry Luttrell laughed.
"I am not. I am not a bit frightened. In fact I am almost bold enough to ask you a question."
"Yes, Colonel Luttrell?"
The invitation was clear enough. But the Colonel was suddenly aware of his audacity and faltered.
"Oh, do ask me, Colonel Luttrell!" she pleaded. The old-fashioned would have condemned Joan Whitworth as a minx at this moment, but would have softened the condemnation with a smile forced from them by her winning grace.
"Well, I will," replied Luttrell, and with great solemnity he asked, "How is Linda Spavinsky?"
Joan ran down the remaining steps, and dropped into a chair. A peal of laughter, silvery and clear, and joyous rang out from her mouth.
"Oh, she's not at all well to-day. I believe she's going. Her health was never very stable."