"Why, Eve!" cried her father. "Why, Eve, you astonish me! Why, I'm surprised at you! Why—what do you mean?"
The girl sagged back into her cushions. "Oh, Father," she faltered, "don't you know—anything? That was just 'small talk.'"
With perfunctory courtesy Edgarton turned to young Barton. "Pray be seated," he said; "take—take a chair."
It was the chair closest to little Eve Edgarton that Barton took. "How do you do, Miss Edgarton?" he ventured.
"How do you do, Mr. Barton?" said little Eve Edgarton.
From the splashy wash-stand somewhere beyond them, they heard Edgarton fussing with the orchids and mumbling vague Latin imprecations—or endearments—over them. A trifle surreptitiously Barton smiled at Eve. A trifle surreptitiously Eve smiled back at Barton.
In this perfectly amiable exchange of smiles the girl reached up suddenly to the sides of her head. "Is my—is my bandage on straight?" she asked worriedly.
"Why, no," admitted Barton; "it ought not to be, ought it?"
Again for no special reason whatsoever they both smiled.
"Oh, I say," stammered Barton. "How you can dance!"