“You judge me to be very much in love?”
This general conviction on the part of the ladies of his acquaintance was growing monotonous. Nancy continued:
“But come back in two years, and we’ll talk of gratitude then. In the meantime let us stick to the impersonal. What do you think of Linburne?”
“I’ve had many opportunities of judging. I’ve been nowhere for two days without meeting him.”
Mrs. Almar laughed with meaning.
“I wonder why that should be,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Riatt asked, but at that moment they drew up before the Thirty-ninth Street entrance, and the doorman, opening the motor’s door, shouted “Ten—Forty-five”—a cheerful lie he has been telling four times a week for many years.
In the opera box, Riatt at once seated himself behind Christine. There is no place like the opera for public devotion. Christine was resplendent in black and gold with a huge black and gold fan that made the fans of the temple dancers—the opera was “Aïda”—look commonplace and ineffective.
Behind it she now murmured to Max:
“And what poisonous thing did dear Nancy tell you coming down?”