“Ripping picture, eh?” said Gray Haviland, as he held back the heavy curtain for the golden-haired young woman at his side to look out.
“Oh, isn’t it a wonderful sight!” And as Anita Frayne took a step forward, toward the casement, Haviland let the curtain fall behind him and the two were alone in the deep embrasure of the wide bay-window.
“Not nearly such a wonderful sight as you are!” Haviland swung her round to face him, and stood gazing at the pretty, doll-like face that half laughed, half frowned into his own.
“Me! I’m not like a moonlit landscape!”
“No, you’re just a golden morsel of summer sunshine——” Haviland’s eulogy was interrupted by a petulant voice calling shrilly:
“Where are you two? I hear you talking; come on. I’m waiting.”
“Oh, Lord! come on,” and, holding the curtain aside, he let Anita pass and then followed her.
“Here we are, Cousin Lucy, all ready for the fray. Good evening, Count.”
Count Charlier bowed Frenchily, and Anita gave him the bright, flashing smile that she kept on hand for mankind in general, and which was quite different from that she used on special occasions or for special friends.
Annoyed at the duration of this delaying smile, Miss Lucy Carrington tapped impatiently on the bridge table, and looked her impatience most unmistakably.