"I wonder," Isabel turned her bland, childlike prettiness on Andy Hall. "I wonder if Mr. Hall knows how fierce he looks when he is angry? Is that an expression you cultivate in the army, Mr. Hall?"
"No." Andy replied with unexpected acidity. "I cultivated it to protect myself against idiotic questioning by London flappers."
"Entirely useless here," Isabel said sweetly. "This isn't London, and I'm not a flapper. Or at least, I'm a sort of a graduate flapper, if anything."
Andy stared at her in some slight puzzlement.
"I'm afraid," he said more politely, "that I don't quite get your drift."
"Oh, you will presently," she assured him with mock gravity. "It's really important that you should. You see, you certainly did browbeat Mrs. Emmert. And when I find a man browbeating my sex, I consider it my duty to subjugate him."
"You speak a language I don't understand," Andy retorted,—but he said it with a smile.
"I'd be pleased to teach you," Isabel replied demurely. "I'm sure you wouldn't be a backward pupil."
Rod leaned over the back of a chair silent, amused. Mary sat on a low stool, her hands clasped over her knees, egging them on with brief sentences. And the other two, who had never seen each other before, whose orbits were as diverse as the separate paths of the Dog Star and Halley's comet, turned upon each other batteries of light-hearted chaffing. They ended up on the Chesterfield together, comparing their favorite drinks, dances and cigarettes, in all three of which they seemed to have had a comprehensive experience. They were at any rate congenial in banter. Mary drew her husband out of the room on some pretext.
"Is that your revolutionary rigging-slinger?" she asked.