"A charming costume," said Papa Claude—"one in which a whole nation appears in public. I leave it to my distinguished collaborator: could any toilet, however elaborate, be more becoming?"
Harold gave a light laugh as his glance rested with undisguised approval on the slender figure in its clinging silk garment, the rosy hues of which were reflected in the girl's flaming cheeks.
"Just stopped for a second, C. M.," Harold said, avoiding her indignant eyes. "I wanted to tell you about the New York press notices. They are simply superb! Tribune has a column. The Times and Herald give us a headliner. And even the old Sun says there are passages in 'Phantom Love' that might have been written by Molière!"
"Where are the papers?" cried Papa Claude, prancing with excitement.
"I gave mine to Estelle. You can get them downstairs at the news-stand."
"I'll run down now—be back in a second." And Papa Claude rushed impetuously from the room.
Eleanor and Harold stood facing each other where he had left them, he with an air of apologetic amusement, and she with an angry dignity that rested incongruously on her childish prettiness.
"Will you please go down and tell Mr. Pfingst that I am not coming to his party?" she asked, with the obvious intention of getting rid of him.
"Why aren't you?"
"Because I don't like him."