Valentine emerged from this like a dog from the surf, successive waves had passed over him without his having had any idea what it meant.
"I don't think I have the pleasure of knowing your daughter," he said.
"Ah, not by name!"
She was ready for him there. She rose, and taking a silver-framed photograph from the table she thrust it into his hands.
He studied it and said politely, "What a charming little face! How like you, if I may say so!"
"Don't you recognize it? Hasn't she sent it to you? Hasn't she written you letters?"
"Possibly," said Valentine, and he added apologetically, "You know, I can't read all my letters. The telegrams I do try to manage, although—"
Mrs. Hazlitt could not pretend to be interested in how Valentine managed his telegrams.
"You mean you didn't bring Lita home last Friday—a week ago?" she said, and her eyes began to get large.
Valentine leaned back and looked at the ceiling, stamped one foot slightly on the floor and crossed the other leg over it. This seemed to help him think, for almost immediately he said: