Mrs. Harbinger and Alice went off to the stables, and the pair left behind exchanged casual comments upon the day, the carriages driving up, the smart spring gowns of the ladies, and that sort of verbal thistledown which makes up ordinary society chit-chat. A remark which Fairfield made on the attire of a dashing young woman was the means of bringing the talk around again to the subject which had been touched upon between them on the previous afternoon.
"I suppose," Miss Calthorpe observed, "that a man who writes stories has to know about clothes. You do write stories, I am sure, Mr. Fairfield."
He smiled, and traced a crack in the piazza floor with his stick.
"Which means, of course," he said, "that you have never read any of them. That is so far lucky for me."
"Why is it lucky?"
"Because you might not have liked them."
"But on the other hand I might have liked them very much."
"Well, perhaps there is that chance. I don't know, however, that I should be willing to run the risk. What kind of a story do you like?"
"I told you that yesterday, Mr. Fairfield. If you really cared for my opinion you would remember."
"You said that you liked 'Love in a Cloud.' Is that what you mean?"