"I wish I were a little street gamin in London," said the girl pensively, fingering the violets at her corsage. "Think of the adventures! Don't you, Frank?"
Frank Doughton looked across at her with smiling significant eyes, which brought a flush to her cheeks.
"No," he said softly, "I do not!"
The girl laughed at him and shrugged her round white shoulders.
"For a young journalist, Frank, you are too obvious—too delightfully verdant. You should study indirection, subtlety, finesse—study our mutual friend Count Poltavo!"
She meant it mischievously, and produced the effect she desired.
At the name the young man's brow darkened.
"He isn't coming here to-night?" Doughton asked, in aggrieved tones.
The girl nodded, her eyes dancing with laughter.
"What can you see in that man, Doris?" he protested. "I'll bet you anything you like that the fellow's a rogue! A smooth, soft-smiling rascal! Lady Dinsmore," he appealed to the elder woman, "do you like him?"