"That singularly frightful little ass, Larry Kirk, is going to cheer him up now," smiled Thayre. "Trust him to make himself a nuisance."
"Not dancing much this evening, Len?" suggested Kirk by way of opening the conversation with the silent one.
"No." The reply was curt.
"I've been wanting to dance with your wife," persisted the other, "but she's as illusive as a wraith."
This time Haswell did not vouchsafe even a monosyllable in reply, and the tactless Kirk assumed the double burden of the conversation.
"I call it rough treatment when the two truly beautiful women in society come to a dance and proceed, to all intents and purposes, to evaporate. Miss Burton, too, seems to have been converted into thin air. What's the use of struggling to keep up with new steps?"
Len Haswell rose stiffly from his chair, and, tossing his cigar through the open window, stalked silently from the room.
The blond young man glanced uncomprehendingly after him, and Thayre's laugh broke in a booming peal.
"Rather gratuitous, son, wasn't it?" he suggested.
"What do you mean?" Larry Kirk put his question blankly.