Christine was all the gentle, wistful child immediately.
“Never when we’re alone?” she asked.
Max lit a cigarette briskly. “I don’t suppose we shall very often be alone,” he returned. “After all, why should we?”
She looked at him like a wounded bird: “No reason if you don’t want to.”
At this moment the door opened and her father came in.
“Come, come, my dear, this is no way to treat your guests,” he said. “I must really insist that you go back to the drawing-room. Upon my word, Riatt, you ought not to keep her like this.”
“It was a great temptation to have her a few minutes to myself, Mr. Fenimer,” said Max, and Christine grinned gratefully at him behind her father’s back.
“Very likely, very likely,” said Mr. Fenimer crossly, “but I want to go to the club, and how can I, unless she goes back? You can’t think only of yourself, my dear fellow.”
Riatt admitted that this was true and he and Christine went back to the drawing-room.
Very soon afterwards, he gave Dorothy a keen prolonged look, which she did not misunderstand. She got up at once and said good night. In the taxicab, he questioned her at once as to her impressions.