Her hand was outstretched, and he took it for an instant in his own.
"I am very glad to see you," he remarked lamely as he let it fall—so lamely that he bit his lip at the remembrance. "You are looking well," he added.
"Of course—a woman always looks well at night," she answered lightly. "And you," she laughed again, her kindly, unconscious laugh; "you are looking—large."
He did not smile. "I have no doubt of it," he responded, and was silent.
Juliet Galt broke in with an affectionate protest. "Eugie is as great a tease as ever," she said. "She will be the death of my baby yet. I tell her to choose one of her own size, but she never does. She always plagues those smaller than herself—or larger."
But Eugenia had turned away to greet a stranger, and in a moment Nicholas drew back into a windowed embrasure where the lights were dim.
Suddenly a voice broke upon his ear addressing Juliet Galt—the vibrant tones of Dudley Webb. He had come in late and was standing in mock helplessness before Juliet and Carrie, his plump white hand vacillating between the two.
"I am at a loss!" he exclaimed with an appealing shrug of his shoulders. "Which is the débutante?"
Juliet laughed, her cheeks mantling with a pleased blush.
"You're a sad flatterer, Dudley! Isn't he, Eugie?"