“Come down when you feel like it,” said Joan at parting, and ran down the stairs, reaching the hall in time to meet Mr. Newton, who was handing his hat and gloves to his valet.
“Well, is she here?”
“She’s here all right,” said Joan, who was not at all embarrassed by the presence of the footman. “Monty, isn’t she a bit of a fool? She couldn’t say boo to a goose. What is the general scheme?”
He was brushing his hair delicately in the mirror above the hall-stand.
“What’s what scheme?” he asked, after the servant had gone, as he strolled into the drawing-room before her.
“Bringing her here—is she sitting into a game?”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Monty without heat, as he dropped wearily to a low divan and drew a silken cushion behind him. “Nor inquisitive,” he added. “You haven’t scared her, have you?”
“I like that!” she said indignantly.
She was one of those ladies who speak more volubly and with the most assurance when there is a mirror in view, and she had her eyes fixed upon herself all the time she was talking, patting a strand of hair here and there, twisting her head this way and that to get a better effect, and never once looking at the man until he drew attention to himself.
“Scared! I’ll bet she’s never been to such a beautiful house in her life! What is she, Monty? A typist or something? I don’t understand her.”