"How long ago was it that Miss Pauline went out?"
"Almost an hour ago, sir."
Harry slammed his way out of the door. It was not until he was in the car on his way to the Courtelyous that he began to think—began to think with utterly wrong deductions, as lovers always do.
"I must have said too much," he told himself. "She's crazy about these wild pranks and she thinks I'm a stupid goody-goody. What a fool I was to try to prevent her!"
"You aren't very nice, Mr. Marvin, to snub my pet musician—my very newest pet musician," Mrs. Courtelyou rebuked him, as he entered.
"I didn't mean it. I was waiting for—why, my car went to pieces," he explained. "Is Pauline here?"
"Here? She is the only person present. Baskinelli hasn't spoken a word to any one else. He won't play anything unless she suggests the subject. I am glad Mr. Owen is here to protect her."
From the scintillant, filmy mist of women around the piano Lucille emerged. She came swiftly to Harry's side.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"What is? Tell me." he replied. "What did you say to her?"