“You supplied the romance, Miss Gwynne. My knowledge is of the hard, matter-of-fact sort.”
“Such as bones, I suppose. Still you seem to be interested in the soft-looking piece of humanity over by that cabinet.”
“Yes; his expression is reminiscent of a boy’s definition of a vacuum,—a large space with nothing in it. Who is he?”
“And I thought you not unknown! He is the husband of a brilliant woman, Mrs. Ames, who has written a novel.”
“Clever?”
“Decidedly so; it stands the test of being intoxicating and leaving a bad taste in the mouth,—like dry champagne.”
“Which is not made for women.”
“You mean school-girls. There she is,—that wisp of a creature listening so eagerly to that elegant youth of the terrier breed. No wonder he interests her; he is as full of information in piquant personal history as a family lawyer, and his knowledge is as much public property as a social city directory.”
“You have studied him to advantage. Are you sure you have not stolen a leaf from him?”
“Dr. Kemp!” she exclaimed in pouting reproach, “do I appear as promiscuous as that? You may call me a ‘blue book,’ but spare my snobbery the opprobrious epithet of ‘directory.’ There goes the fascinating young Mrs. Shurly with Purcell Burroughs in her toils. Did you catch the fine oratory of the glance she threw us? It said, ‘Dorothy Gwynne, how dare you appropriate Dr. Kemp for ten long minutes? Hand him over; pass him around. I want him; you are only boring him, though you seem to be amusing yourself.”