"'Pon my soul, Nona! That you? I supposed you were in bed long ago."
One of the green-shaded lamps lit the big writing-table. Manford's armchair was drawn up to it, an empty glass and half-consumed cigarette near by, the evening paper sprawled on the floor.
"Was that you I heard coming in? Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes; worse luck! I've been scouring the town after Lita."
"Lita?"
"Waiting for her for hours at Tommy Ardwin's. Such a crew! He told me she was going there to dance for Klawhammer, the Hollywood man, and I didn't want her to go alone—"
Manford's face darkened. He lit another cigarette and turned to his daughter impatiently.
"What the devil made you believe such a yarn? Klawhammer—!"
Nona stood facing him; their eyes met, and he turned away with a shrug to reach for a match.
"I believed it because, just afterward, the servants told me that Lita had left, and as they said you'd gone with her I supposed you'd taken her to Ardwin's, not knowing that I meant to join her there."