As they sauntered, in a body, to the entrance, Darrell came up with a young man of the masher type in his wake, whom he introduced to Phyllis as Lord Malplaquet.
"Lord Malplaquet is dying to hear your theories of life," he said playfully, bestowing a beaming and confidential smile upon her.
"Mr. Darrell, you shall not amuse yourself at my expense," she responded gaily, as she plunged into the crowd under the wing of her new escort, who was staring at her with the languid yet undisguised admiration of his class.
"Now this is the real thing," said Lord Watergate to Gertrude, as they stopped before the canvas they had come to seek.
"Yes," said Gertrude, in mechanical acquiescence.
She was thinking: "What a mean soul I must have. Every one seems to like and admire this Sidney Darrell: and I suspect everything about him—even his art. For the sake of a prejudice; of a little hurt vanity, perhaps, as well."
"That, 'yes,' hasn't the ring of the true coin, Miss Lorimer."
"This is scarcely the time and place for criticism, Lord Watergate," laughed Gertrude.
"For hostile criticism, you mean. You are a terrible person to please, are you not?"
As the room began to clear Darrell took Frank aside, and glancing in the direction of the sisters, who had re-united their forces, said: "You know those girls, intimately, I believe."