But just at this moment the maid returned to announce the visit of a Miss Loeffler, who followed close upon the maid’s heels.
“Hello, Irene,” said Julie pleasantly. “Glad you dropped in. You don’t know my brother, Stacey, do you?”
Miss Loeffler gave Stacey a nod and a brief firm shake of the hand, then threw herself down on the davenport, crossed her legs, and swung the right one vigorously. She looked about twenty-four years old, had dark bobbed hair, a small pretty face with restless dark eyes and a petulant mouth, and wore a brown street suit with a very short skirt.
“Of course I don’t approve of you, Captain Carroll,” she said crisply, “because you are Captain Carroll, a tool of militarism in the late capitalistic war. No, I’m glad to meet you, but I don’t approve of you.”
“No, you wouldn’t, of course, Irene,” Julie observed placidly.
“Oh, well,” said Stacey, “even pity from you’s more dear than that from another.”
“Naturally, if you quoted any one at me, it would have to be some one hopelessly old-fashioned, like Shelley. Can I have a high-ball, Julie?” she asked, jumping up. All her movements were abrupt, like her voice.
“Of course,” said Julie. “Oh, no, Stacey, don’t try to get it for her. Irene will be cross if you do.”
Nevertheless, he followed Miss Loeffler into the dining-room and at least stood by while she mixed her high-ball.
Suddenly, in the midst of the operation, she turned to him and gazed into his eyes. “What are you really like, Mr. Carroll?” she demanded intensely.