"I—you——" she halted awkwardly, "I would like to talk to you," she admitted hesitatingly. Courtlandt wheeled and approached the piano.
"Good Lord, don't you know my name that you have to juggle 'I—you——' when you want to attract my attention?" he demanded belligerently. There was a defiant gleam in the eyes which met his.
"It does sound silly, doesn't it—Stevie?" with exaggerated demureness and an exact imitation of Felice Denbigh's voice. "But—but I know yours better than you know mine—I think——" then as he opened his lips to speak she hurried on, "I wanted to ask if you were in love with Felice Denbigh? No—no—don't mistake me," as his blue eyes darkened to purple-black, and his lips tightened, "I'm not jealous—really I'm not—I only wanted you to know that if you are, I'm sorry, terribly sorry. It's a tragedy to love one person and have to marry another."
"How do you know? Are you in love with Greyson?" with rough directness.
His sudden turn of the tables took the girl's breath. She colored betrayingly. She knew that she must be the picture of guilt as she stood there, her color coming and going, her heart beating like a silly tom-tom. There was even a slight unsteadiness in her voice as she evaded:
"I haven't seen Bruce Greyson since last winter," then maddened at her own lack of poise she looked up with frank defiance. "It's a pity that he doesn't live here. He could motor me to town."
He flushed darkly.
"My motoring to town with Mrs. Denbigh this morning was purely accidental."
"But—but—you will never go with me."
"Trolley incomes should avoid limousine ladies."